Linda L Dunlap [Dunlap - The Maude Rogers Murder Collection

Mornings were always her worst times, with stiff joints refusing to work without pain, and a sharp cough every few minutes that set fire to her lungs. The wrinkled pack of unfiltered cigarettes lay on the nightstand where it could be reached easily during sleepless hours of tossing and turning. She crinkled the pack, and took out one of the three remaining cigarettes, fingering it to her mouth.

Her cigarette lighter was butane and old, with the inscription, To Maude from Paul, worn slick from use. She gently lifted the top, rolled the cylinder against a small piece of flint, and watched a burst of blue and yellow flame engulf the cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she pulled the first smoke slowly through her mouth and across her teeth, tasting the burning tobacco, the guilt coming hard. Flicking a loose shred from her tongue, she thought about her mother dying from cancer and wondered if filtered cigarettes were a better choice. Someone said it would be like changing rooms on the Titanic.

Taking another drag from the cigarette, she noticed the blood under her fingernailsdried, dark spots missed in the wash-up. She had grown more careless in recent years. Not so long ago that would have been out of the question for her, a professional in the murder business. She stood and stretched upward as far as her stiff knees would allow, the bones creaking in her shoulders and upper back.

Every day it was more difficult to pick up and carry heavy items. She didnt know how, or when, she began losing her youthful muscle strength. Probably a little with each birthday. As each new day overlapped the last, they all looked the same over her shoulder.

She remembered when she could work all day and then go to the gym for an hour and a half, lifting and pushing weights. Still not tired, she would crack out a hundred and fifty sit-ups, never even breathing hard. Her waist had been slim then, tucked neatly between firm breasts and the generous curve of her hips. Long legs and the strength of a man had pushed her forward on the force, even in the days before politically correct supervisors were told to hire women.

Memories of arresting the scum of the city were sweet. Sometimes, she and her partner, John Maxwell, would follow paper-thin leads for weeks on end, until the break came, and the puzzle pieces of the case all fit together. Afterwards, they would guzzle cold beer at one of their favorite bars celebrating the end of the story, toasting each other for their team effort. The memory made her mouth water, even though the stale taste of last nights gin burned her throat, and the hangover headache beat a staccato rhythm of pain across her temples.

Last night...last night, she kept trying to focus, to remember how it all went down, how the bullet was loosed. The shot had flown across the small space of the room, and the hot casing had been ejected from the gun before popping to the floor beside her feet. It was bad. The slow-motion mental replay recalled in detail the hot blood of the target.

Bright red spurted from the perps chest artery when the second bullet fired automatically. Her firing instructor would have been proud. The fatal bullet flew from the long barrel to the center-mass target, just as she had been taught. The only reason to pull a weapon and fire it is to kill. There is no such thing as a warning shot. Good things to remember.

Maude had seen it coming. She knew where the shooter would be, and quietly crawled through an open window. Dropping to the floor on knees that screamed at her she had the gun already in hand. The front door of the warehouse had opened slowly as she crawled along the wall behind the row of oil drums. Her breathing was fast and shallow, her fear that she would be too late. Finally, she was across from the perp and watched as he raises the shotgun in the air. Maxwells body was almost level with the barrel of the powerful weapon. She called out, and the shooter quickly turned toward her, confused by her presence. Lifting her gun, she fired without sighting. No time. A lucky pull on the trigger for her, and the blast of gunpowder and metal for him. The sound echoed in her ears, once, and then a second time.

The perp had no pulse, no breath. She touched his face, his neck and the arm that cradled the cold, sawed-off shotgun. She opened the chamber and acknowledged the two huge shells. Her partner had stood staring, the hot burst of urine cooling as it trailed into his new black shoes. The shock of almost dying did that.

As always, the paperwork had to be done. She had to write it: who , what, why, when and how, all the elements of a report.

Who was the mystery; she hoped his fingerprints might help to identify the man.

What was the shotgun; the man had been a thief looking to murder a cop, and had to be taken out.

Why did a man choose to die on a particular day?

She knew how . It was her gun that blew his lights out--not the first time she had wielded that tool to rid the earth of pestilence.

The when was always the most important of all the elements-the grace that could save a career or send it spiraling into an abyss.

Maude had known to make her report clear and concise. She must never give the men upstairs reasons to question her ability to deal with circumstances. Her gun had been taken away until the shooting could be investigated. Standard procedure, every death caused by a police officer required it. Still, she had felt naked on the street when the door of the shop closed behind her. The Cop Shop, slang for the Madison Police Department of Madison, Texas, the place where Detective Maude Rogers was growing old.

Afterwards, there was the trip to the cop bar, soaking up the victory, washing the taste of gunpowder off her tongue. She smoked cigarettes and slung back gin and tonic until the memory of the hole in the mans chest faded, until the gurgle of his fading breath no longer echoed in her ears.

Raucous laughter erupting from the cops tables grew louder as the hours passed. Maude finally stumbled to the bar, and asked the skinny kid serving drinks to call a cab for her, saying she wasnt drunk enough yet to drive a car. The joke made her laugh, a low chuckle that didnt last long. Behind her the men and women around the tables were still throwing the liquor back, enjoying the night, some waving as she walked unsteadily out the door.

Morning came too quickly, bringing the pain in her head, and the need for more sleep. When she arrived at work her lieutenant nodded, acknowledging her return. She was assigned to the desk until the gun was cleared and internal affairs satisfied with her story. Her partner had supported Maudes actions all the way, claimed he owed his life to her, but that was never enough. An investigation had to be done. She would have insisted on the same procedure if the command was hers. But that would never happen.

Maude accepted that she would never be more than what she was with the department. She was too old, and a woman, so promotions were out of the question. Hold onto the job had become her mantra for the last few years. In five more, her social security money would kick in, and she could file papers with the city for retirement. Until then, she didnt want to lose her employment. If that meant accepting what the bosses laid on her plate, she would follow orders.

The desk job was simple--taking calls from citizens needing answers about parking tickets and minor citations received from traffic cops. Occasionally someone from the warrant office would call and ask for help serving an arrest warrant, but Maude knew to direct them to the county constable. Lieutenant Patterson didnt send a man under his command to serve warrants unless he was looking for a way to punish.