Hunting the VA Slayer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Also by C. M. Wendelboe

  A Bitter Wind Mystery

  Hunting the Five Point Killer

  Hunting the Saturday Night Strangler

  A Manny Tanno Mystery

  Death Along the Spirit Road

  Death Where the Bad Rocks Live

  Death on the Greasy Grass

  Death Etched in Stone

  A Tucker Ashley Western Adventure

  Backed to the Wall

  Seeking Justice

  A Nelson Lane Frontier Mystery

  Marshal and the Moonshiner

  The Marshal and the Sinister Still

  Hunting the VA Slayer

  A Bitter Wind Mystery

  C. M. Wendelboe

  Encircle Publications, LLC

  Farmington, Maine U.S.A.

  Hunting the VA Slayer Copyright © 2020 C. M. Wendelboe

  Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-64599-016-1

  E-book ISBN 13: 978-1-64599-017-8

  Kindle ISBN 13: 978-1-64599-018-5

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher, Encircle Publications, Farmington, ME.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual places or businesses, is entirely coincidental.

  Editor: Cynthia Brackett-Vincent

  Book design: Eddie Vincent

  Cover design by Deirdre Wait, High Pines Creative, Inc.

  Cover photographs: petroglyphs © Bolo-Photo;

  background scenery © Getty Images

  Author photograph by Heather M. Wendelboe

  Published by: Encircle Publications, LLC

  PO Box 187

  Farmington, ME 04938

  Visit: http://encirclepub.com

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  TO MY WIFE HEATHER FOR taking photos and telling me where to go. To the VA Police in Cheyenne for answering odd ball questions, and for Scott McRae for his modeling panache. To Diedre Wait for her work on the cover design, and for Cynthia Brackett-Vincent and Eddie Vincent for their advice on the telling of this tale.

  To all the women and men in uniform who have sacrificed their lives, and for those that frequent the VA facilities around our country

  with medical issues sustained in the defense of our country.

  And for those patching the thankless warriors up.

  “It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather, we should thank God

  that such men lived.”

  —George S. Patton Jr.

  1

  ARN ANDERSON SAT AT THE kitchen table staring at his morning coffee cup like he was reading tea leaves.

  “What gives with the hound dog look?” Ana Maria Villarreal asked. She sipped her own coffee between nibbles of an onion bagel. She set her cup down and pulled her bathrobe tightly around her shoulders. “You look like you lost your best friend.”

  Arn sipped of his coffee and crunched his nose up. Damn if he didn’t hate cold coffee as much as he hated what he feared he was about to get sucked into. “I didn’t lose my best friend—Helen Mosby did.”

  Ana Maria sat silent waiting for Arn to explain at his own pace. As she always did.

  “Helen’s husband, Frank, died of a heart attack a few days ago and she wants to talk with me about it.”

  Ana Maria rested her hand on Arn’s arm. “Was he a friend of yours?”

  Arn nodded and looked at his piece of toast that he hadn’t touched, now colder than his coffee. “Frank’s younger brother, Jessup, and I hung together at East High.” He pushed his plate away from him. “Frank was the big brother I never had. Thirteen years older than Jessup and me and I looked up to him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too. Frank would come sit by Jessup and me when we hung our poles in the water at the Fishing Lake trying to catch some crappie. And now and again he’d let us drive his car, even though we could barely see over the wheel. He even gave us our first sip of beer, warm though it was. Jessup bragged how his big brother was a ground pounder in Vietnam and bragged even more when Frank graduated from Officer Candidate School at the top of his class.” Arn forced a smile. “Helen was his high school sweetheart. Married right after he came back from ’Nam, and they were never separated after that. Until a few days ago.”

  “But now Frank has had a heart attack.” Danny Spotted Elk slapped dry wall dust off his jeans before entering the kitchen. He ran his hand through his stringy, gray ponytail and shook dust off onto the floor in the hallway. “Couldn’t help but overhear.” He refilled Ana Maria’s cup and poured himself coffee before washing his hands in the sink. “Must have been some friend,” he said over his shoulder, “for you to tear up like you are.”

  “I’m not tearing up.”

  Ana Maria leaned across the table and bushed Arn’s cheek. Her hand came away damp where tears had cut tiny rivulets in his dusty face. He looked away and grabbed a napkin to dry his eyes. “What makes it so hard is that I talked with Frank just last week. He was practicing for a 5K in the Senior Olympics.” Arn smiled as he recalled the way the old Army Major had tried talking Arn into joining him for his daily run. “Frank could be mistaken for a man twenty years younger, he was in that good of shape.”

  “You mentioned his wife wanted to talk to you about his death,” Ana Maria said. “Why?”

  Arn shrugged. “I can’t say.” But he did suspect what she wanted. She mentioned his death wasn’t quite right, and Arn dreaded talking with her. “Maybe she just needs someone… empathetic. A shoulder to lay her head on while she cries,” he said with little conviction in his voice.

  “No offense,” Danny said, “but that ain’t you. No offense, but you’re not Mister Compassion.”

  “I know that,” Arn said. “That’s why I sure would like someone else to go with me,” he said as he met Ana Maria’s gaze. “Someone who can weep and moan with the best of them.”

  “Me?” Ana Maria said. “I’m supposed to be taping an animal cruelty story to air next week,” she said, holding up her hand. “Sorry. I’ll tell DeAngelo that something has come up, and I’ll tape it tomorrow. I’ll go with you when you talk to her.”

  DeAngelo Damos owned the local television station, with Ana Maria as their star reporter. In actuality, she was DeAngelo’s only reporter with any experience.” “I don’t want you getting into hot water because I can’t… connect,” Arn said.

  Ana Maria waved the air. “If DeAngelo gives me any grief, I’ll tell him I can quit and go back to turning a wrench. Any number of repair shops in Cheyenne would love to have a good mechanic. See how he takes that.”

  Arn nudged his coffee cup. “I don’t know. Maybe I ought to just tell Helen that something’s come up.” He nodded to Danny. “I did promise that I’d help you hang drywall today.”

  “Oh pleeease go,” Danny said. “Don’t feel bad about me doing it by my lonesome. Without your help—as you so generously refer to it—I can get twice as much done with half as many mistakes.” Danny was right about that—where Arn lacked any kind of handy-man skills, Danny was the maestro in home remodeling.

  “It’s settled then.” Ana Maria stood from the table.
“I’ll put on some clean clothes. Where does Helen want to meet?”

  “At the funeral home,” Arn said. “As if it’s not hard enough meeting her at a time like this.”

  “Then I had better wear my mourning clothes,” she tapped Arn on the shoulder. “And you do the same. Wear your suit jacket.”

  “Might as well,” Arn said. “The only time I get a chance to wear it is in court and at funerals. And sometimes, it’s hard to distinguish what I’m attending at the time.”

  —

  “Go on inside,” Arn said. “I need a moment.”

  “Understood,” Ana Maria said and entered the funeral home.

  But she couldn’t understand, Arn was certain. He didn’t need a moment to compose himself because it was Frank Mosby laid to rest—Arn just never cottoned to anyone slabbed-up at the front of the parlor under gaudy bouquets of flowers no matter who, no matter how good the mortician-turned-artist had made the dearly departed look. Arn thought back to the many “celebrations of life” he had attended as a lawman, and he had grown to hate funeral homes.

  As he stood outside with the funeral music barely audible from inside, Arn’s thoughts returned to his father—his send-off had been a doozie. He had passed out on the railroad tracks just in time for a Union Pacific engine to plow into his ratty old Buick, pushing the car all the way before stopping nearly a mile down the tracks, By then, his father had been unrecognizable as a human being inside the crumpled mass of General Motor’s iron. That didn’t stop the artist-in-residence at the funeral home from trying to make him look presentable.

  He had failed miserably.

  But then, one could expect no less from a body that had lain inside such a mangled car.

  That was one of those times—like now—that he wished he were a smoker. He needed something to calm himself. All he could do was take deep, soothing breaths before entering the funeral home.

  The wide mahogany door creaked like a warning in an old Bela Lugosi movie as Arn stepped through. The dim lights of the viewing room matched the funeral dirge played in a minor key piped throughout the speakers embedded every few feet in the ceiling, preventing Arn from going anywhere inside the home and escape the depressing music.

  A tall Lurch-looking man stood with his hands clasped in front of him. He had an odd way of smiling that turned the corners of his lips up ever so slightly, leaving the rest of his dour face an impassable visage. As if he knew no pleasantries awaited inside. “Please sign the guest book,” the man said in a monotone, remaining where he was as if he intended standing there all night to ambush visitors to the parlor.

  Arn signed the ledger under Ana Maria’s name before placing his Stetson on a bent wooden coat rack and entering the viewing room.

  Helen Mosby—a thin black veil covering her face—sobbed even as Ana Maria held the old woman’s shaking shoulders. She glanced up for a moment as Arn reverently walked past her to the front of the room where Frank Mosby laid in his plain casket. A U. S. Army flag had been draped over the closed portion of the casket beside an Army 1st Infantry banner. A dozen full bouquets of flowers had been arranged around the casket, leaving a narrow pathway to approach the deceased.

  He looked away, remembering his mother’s words that people often appeared just like they were alive once the mortician finished working his magic. As Arn looked down at the open casket, he drew in a sharp breath. Frank Mosby looked exactly like he did when Arn talked to him this past week. “We’ll start easy,” Frank chided Arn when he saw the former Army officer stretching his hamstrings against the curb in front of his house. “We can work up to something more strenuous, but for now a nice, easy four-mile lope would do you wonders.” Arn had declined, admitting to himself that Frank, being far older than Arn, was in so much better condition. “Clean living,” he always told Arn attributed to his longevity. Yet here he was, the youngest seventy-five-year-old man Arn knew dead from a heart attack.

  Arn kissed his fingers and touched Frank’s forehead. “Rest easy, my friend,” he said under his breath and turned to where Ana Maria sat with Helen in the front row.

  She looked up at Arn and started to stand when he motioned for her to remain seated. “Silly thing to ask, but how are you holding up, Helen?”

  She pulled her veil back from her face and leaned close. Mascara had run down her hollowed cheeks, and her reddened eyes met his. She forced a smile as she took Arn’s face in her hands and kissed his cheek. “As good as expected for someone who just lost the only man she ever loved.” She looked past Arn to the casket. “He looks so… alive, doesn’t he?”

  “He does,” Arn answered. “Looks just like when I spoke with him last week.”

  “Frank mentioned you… interrupted his run. But he laughed when he said it. He was always encouraging people to keep in shape.”

  They sat in silence, then, listening to the filtered music, until Ana Maria broke the quiet of the room. “I talked with Chief Oblanski. He told me someone found your husband on the floor of a restroom at the Veteran’s Center here in Cheyenne.”

  Helen took a silk handkerchief out of her clutch purse and wiped her cheeks. “Another veteran came into the restroom and found Frank. He’d fallen—apparently when he had his… heart attack. He must have hit his neck when he went down, all bruised-up like it was before the mortician hid it so nicely.”

  A man wearing bib overalls and carrying his Union Pacific hat entered the viewing room. He walked to the casket and stood silent for a few moments before leaving. “Friend of Frank’s?” Arn asked.

  A slight smile crept over Helen’s face. “Everyone was Frank’s friend. He had that ability to make folks feels special. He was that way before he went into the Army, and it stayed with him through Vietnam.” She looked down at her handkerchief stained dark from her makeup, and her smile faded. “That‘s why it was so hard for me to realize Frank was murdered.”

  Arn looked to Ana Maria who shrugged. “I thought Frank died of a heart attack.”

  Helen nodded. “Frank’s doctor at the VA thought he died of a heart attack. And the coroner backed him up.”

  “Is that why Frank was at the VA, being treated for a heart condition?”

  Helen looked past Arn again to the casket for a moment before saying, “he always joked that he had a prostate as big as a bagel. That’s why he was there—to pick up his meds. And he had to get his annual blood draw.” She took Arn’s hand and squeezed it. “I need you to look into his murder.”

  Arn looked to Ana Maria, but she was no help. Even though there had been no autopsy performed on Frank—Arn could tell by the way in which Frank’s head appeared undisturbed by any Stryker saw—he just did not understand her suspicions. “Helen,” Arn said, “if the doctor said he died of a heart condition and the coroner ruled it as well, what makes you think Frank was murdered?”

  Helen sat up straight in the seat and placed her hands in her lap. “Because my brother, Steve, died in the same manner at the Ft. Meade VA Center two months ago. The coroner in South Dakota said Steve died of a heart attack, too, but he was in as good of condition as Frank was. I believe Steve was murdered, too.”

  “Still doesn’t explain why you think their deaths were not natural.”

  Helen turned red, and Arn could tell she was frustrated that he didn’t share her suspicions. “You said many times that few things are coincidental, have you not?”

  Arn nodded. “But that was pertaining to investigations I was involved in— .”

  “Two men from the same family dying mere months apart of the same thing is just coincidental? Especially when both men were healthy as a horse?”

  “Helen, just what do you want me to do? I can hardly argue with doctors and coroners.”

  Tears started streaming down her cheeks again and she pulled the veil back over her face. “Humor an old woman,” she said. “Look into their deaths for me. I need to know if
Steve and Frank did die naturally.”

  Arn bent over and kissed Helen’s forehead. “Of course, I will.” He motioned to Ana Maria. “If there are things that you think of later that might help me, you can be sure Ana Maria will keep it close to her vest.”

  2

  ARN STOOD IN THE LOBBY of the new Public Safety Building in front of the Police Information Desk admiring the vintage photographs adorning the walls on both sides of the desk. The agency had recently moved from the old telephone building, and this was a welcome change from the dingy lobby of the old building. Officer Smith sat in his chair behind the elevated desk overseeing whoever entered with a problem. Right now, Arn had a problem.

  “Don’t mind if I stick around and watch the action?” Smith said and grinned. “She’s on her way down now.”

  Arn glared at him. Since Gorilla Legs had been relegated to the police chief’s assistant secretary—pushed out of her position by a pleasant lady—she had been on the prod. And right now, Gorilla Legs was stomping down the stairs to confront Arn.

  Arn heard her before he saw her descending the stairs, heavy feet clomping on the steps as Arn hastily formulated his strategy of dealing with her. He hoped the secretary and gatekeeper to the Chief of Police had mellowed out since Arn last talked with her. But he doubted it. The woman—a descendent of Vikings she was always fond of telling folks—was as frightening as any usurper who ever sailed a Norse vessel.

  “Anderson,” a deep voice boomed, echoing off the stairwell leading down to the first floor, “you’d better make your little tete-a-tete with the Chief short. He’s got a lot of work to do today, and he don’t need your bullshit to distract him.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Arn said, sizing her up, wondering if he could take her in a fair fight. She would be a handful, with her thick football-player legs and arms any iron worker would be proud of. He finally concluded he would prevail in a battle with the Norse goddess standing in front of him, but he would sustain more injuries than he ever did competing in high school rodeos.