Hunting the VA Slayer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “But did that hatred escalate into homicide?” Wagner asked. “That’s what I’d be asking.”

  “It could,” Arn said. “I guess I need to talk with Ethan Ames again. Besides giving me some muted profile of our killer, Ethan knows more than he told me. He knows the killer, I’d bet.”

  A woman testing out a new prostatic leg stumbled into the courtyard while a boy—perhaps her son—remained close to her in case she fell. They sat at a table at the other end of the courtyard and paid Wagner and Arn no mind. “Did you find out if all four of them served together?”

  Wagner lit another cigarette from the one burned down between his fingers and snubbed the butt out in the grass. “Winger and Samantha and Seth Barnes all have some things in common from their military careers. Two—Seth and Sam—were both in Iraq at the same time—Sam in the motor pool, Seth in the Rangers before he rotated back to the states. They sent him to Ft. Sill and was there when Winger was stationed there after his tour was completed in theater.”

  “Did you find that any knew each other before coming to this part of the country?”

  Wagner shook his head. “They could have, there just was nothing to prove they ever did. Except Samantha and Jonah having served together, but we knew that.

  “On a positive note, I learned that Frank Mosby had a rare allergy to cocaine. He underwent a nasal reconstruction down in the Denver VA fifteen years ago and was given cocaine for pain during the procedure.”

  “They use cocaine in the hospital?”

  Wagner flipped through his notes. “Apparently. There is one company manufacturing pharmaceutical grade cocaine for medical purposes, but it is highly regulated by the DEA.”

  “But a doctor could have access to it?”

  “A medical doctor. Anyway, seems like your friend went into cardiac arrest when he was given medical grade coke.”

  “So he wasn’t a user,” Arn said. “Helen will be glad to hear that, though she already knew it.” Arn popped a piece of gun and moved upwind from Wagner’s smoke, wondering how the ME could have missed something as obvious as Steve’s allergy when it appeared as if he OD’d. “How about the other victims?”

  Wagner shrugged. “Nothing to connect any of them except they were all officers. None served with each other in Vietnam, and none had the same jobs. They were as strangers to one another as ever can be.”

  He stood and closed his files. “So you see, all the work it took to get their files was a waste of time.”

  “I don’t see it that way,” Arn said. “You came up with a lot of excellent information.”

  39

  ARN STOOD IN FRONT OF the white wall so long his legs went numb before he sat in his chair.

  “Looks like you added some things,” Danny said, and set a plate with pie on Arn’s TV tray.

  Danny plopped onto his stained and tattered La-Z-Boy that he had found beside a dumpster in the alley in back of the Salvation Army. “Pretty bad when the Salvation Army doesn’t even want it for donations,” Arn had said, not sure if he was angrier at having the ratty recliner in his house or the fact that Danny—without a license—had driven Arn’s old truck that had no license plates and no insurance.

  “Well, it’s mine now,” Danny said, even as he used half a bottle of Febreeze on the recliner.

  Arn continued eying his notes, kicking them one way in his mind, then another.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Hear what?”

  “Whatever’s puzzling you,” Danny said and daintily sipped his coffee.

  “Ok, here’s what’s bugging hell out of me—anyone on that list up there could be the killer. And no one could be the killer. And,” he picked up his plate, “any two of them could be working together.”

  “I see you’ve lumped names together, but I’m not sure why.”

  “Look.” Arn set his plate down and walked to the wall, He grabbed the marker and underlined Sam and Seth. “They were in Iraq at the same time, and briefly in Kuwait, though Wagner said they were in different units. And, Ana Maria saw them having dinner last night when she went to supper last night with DeAngelo.”

  “You sound a little… down with her seeing another man.”

  “Not hardly,” Arn said. But he was down. When Ana Maria told him, and he kept telling himself he didn’t blame her. If she and Seth dined together because of romance.

  He pointed to the wall again. “Winger and Seth were artillery at Ft. Sill for several months, though again there’s nothing to prove they ever had contact with one another. Samantha and Jonah served together for certain and they knew each other as recently as the night Samantha kicked hell out of him at the Legion.” Seth also knew the… person he gave the Xylazine. He won’t give the name up but was in Iraq when Brian Gibbs served two tours there.”

  “Now I am confused,” Danny said. “What’s all their associations with each other even matter if you’re looking for that one killer.”

  Arn tapped the white wall with the marker. “I thought so at first, but been thinking: what if there were two killers? One sloppy and brutal as when Steve Urchek was murdered, the other meticulous. Organized. Bringing death in a painless, quick way with lethal doses of cocaine. A manner that would ensure instant death with a minimum of commotion. The perfect way to avoid being caught in the act.”

  Arn sat back and grabbed his fork and plate before he paused. “This is rhubarb pie.”

  “It is.”

  Arn set the plate down. “I saw the way Oblanski’s face puckered up when you gave him a piece.”

  Danny waved the air. “I threw that pie out. This is fresh and it is a masterpiece.”

  Dany was right—the pie was sooo good. Arn let the sugary fruit and crust slide down his throat ever so slowly. “Did you mess up the recipe with the last pie?”

  “Not hardly,” Danny said as he grinned. “I knew he was coming by and I thought I’d make something special for him. I just bet Oblanski doesn’t come around any time soon asking for pie.”

  “Passive aggressive is what you are,” Arn said. “I’ll ask Ethan Ames how to cure you the next time I see him.”

  Danny stared at the wall for a long moment before he said, “where does Pudgy fit in?”

  Arn gestured toward the wall with his fork. “That‘s the biggest puzzle of all. As crazy as he was as a kid, I can’t help but think it just escalated when he enlisted.”

  “I take it Wagner hasn’t found out who he is?”

  Arn shook his head. “Lord know, the good sergeant has tried, too. He cross-referenced men who had enlisted in Sheridan with their home being in the southern Black Hills. He came up with two that enlisted there with their homes listed as Rapid City and Hill City, but both those men are listed as KIA in Iraq. Wagner found out the data base to cross-reference servicemen wasn’t developed until five years ago. But,” he turned on the television, “if Pudgy was familiar enough with Sheridan, I can only assume that he knew his way around the VA there. And he night have run into Sims at the center some years later.”

  “Why do you think Pudgy enlisted in Sheridan and not his home?”

  “One more thing I’ll grill Ethan about.”

  “Turn it up a skooch,” Danny said and Arn reached for the television.

  “I attempted interviewing the leader of the group, Colonel Jonah Barb, as he calls himself,” Ana Maria said as a crowd looked on from the steps of the state capitol,” but the Righteous Sword of the Lord refused to allow me access to their compound.”

  “When did she drive down there?” Arn asked, a sinking feeling overcoming him. Ana Maria was safe now, but it would have been just as conceivable that some of the RSL zealots would have harmed her, especially given the bad attention Ana Maria had given them this last week. As Arn recalled from his visit to the compound, there was enough acreage to hide a body and never be found.

&nbs
p; “All she told me couple days ago is that she had an interview with a person of interest in the case,” Danny said.

  A stiff wind whipped Ana Maria’s hair across her face, and she pulled it back with one hand, the other holding a microphone as she said, “we need your help in solving these murders. The RSL is part religious fanatics, part activists that wish for all American military to cease to exist. We believe they—and especially their leader, Colonel Jonah—know something about the deaths of these innocent veterans. We believe they know the VA Slayer.”

  “I’m surprised DeAngelo allowed Ana Maria to continue her special after what Jonah’s lawyers did.”

  “That old Greek is not someone to be pushed around,” Arn said. “Even by a couple of fancy suits.” Ana Maria said two RSL lawyers came to the TV station. They threatened to file a lawsuit against DeAngelo if Ana Maria didn’t cease her on-air insinuations. ‘DeAngelo went livid,’ she said that night after work. ‘He told security to toss both attorneys out on their ears. Not usher them out gently—physically toss them out.’ She had laughed telling the story. ‘It was a thing of beauty seeing those two rolling in the parking lot.’”

  “We are not directly accusing the RSL of killing veterans,” Ana Maria wrapped it up, “but members do know something that will help us connect all the killings.”

  “That,” Arn motioned to the television, “was a disclaimer DeAngelo felt he needed to get out there to be legally safe with the broadcasts.”

  “Especially in light of the death threats she’s been receiving.”

  Ana Maria has gotten four and five death threats a day from Jonah in her work email. In gruesome and graphic terms, Jonah outlined what he would do to her should she continue accusing him—and his RSL group—of committing the unsolved murders. Oblanski’s computer forensics officers had no luck finding out where the man sent his email from. “Every email he sends was routed through another ISP. He never mails from the same place twice. He could be sending the threats from the house next door,” Oblanski said.

  “That’s nuts,” Arn said. “You must be able to track the server down.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Oblanski told him. “He’s hiding himself very well. Hell, he doesn’t even think we’ll catch him the way he’s ballsy enough to sign his name to the threats.”

  The camera stayed on Ana Maria as she fielded question, and Arn’s attention stayed on the crowd. Oblanski had two men posted undercover somewhere in the crowd and Arn strained to spot them. He could not, and he sat back with a sigh of relief.

  The crowd broke up, the broadcast ended. Arn knew Jonah was a small man and suspected he could blend in most anywhere. If he were able to avoid surveillance cameras at the VA by altering his appearance the day of the protest, he might have been among the onlookers. Arn put on his reading glasses and focused on a lone figure that had broken away from the rest of the group heading towards their cars.

  A familiar figure by his gait. The way his head was on a swivel as if expecting trouble. And when the man turned so the side of his face showed, Arn cursed to himself for not being in the crowd watching.

  Doc Henry.

  40

  AS I STARE AT THE television set and listen to Ana Maria’s nightly broadcast I DVR’d—I am riveted to anything she does—I wonder how can she be out there in the open? With people around? Anyone who could do her harm, especially since she’s spouting off about those veterans’ deaths. I tell myself I’ve done everything I could to warn her off: first the dead cat sent to the television station, then the threat through the email. A normal person would be more frightened, but not my Ana Maria. I guess that is one of the reasons I am so fascinated by her. So attracted to her, even if I feel it is taboo.

  But some days you feel like the dog, and some days you feel like the hydrant. Today, I am the hydrant, for no warning I have given her has caused her to quit meddling in places she does not belong. Do specials on the county fair or traffic accidents in the abominable roundabout that are causing so many wrecks. Anything else. But not the veterans’ deaths. If she finds nothing else about them, there will be no reason for me to fear detection.

  Should I teach her a lesson as I did Anderson? I don’t trust myself, for—as much as I admire her spunk—I might go off the deep end, as shrinks say, and fail to stop with that one blow of the wrench. Like I would have done if not interrupted the night I caught Anderson in the Outback parking lot unawares.

  But I have to warn her off. But how… I have a way, I think. She is—after all—a gear head who loves her cars.”

  41

  ARN SIDESTEPPED GORILLA LEGS AS she refused to budge. Their bellies brushed against one another and she flashed a wide grin. “The chief is expecting you,” she seemed to coo.

  “She’s been asking about you,” Oblanski said after he shut the door. “Comes in handy, too. Every time she gets a case of nasty, I mention you’ll be stopping by and she mellows out. I’m telling you, she loves you big, strong men who can put her in her place.”

  “If I were to try putting her anywhere it would throw my back out of place.”

  “Would you rather have her on the verge of throttling you every time you need to come by?”

  “Would you rather I bring a piece of Danny’s pie for you every time I drop in?”

  “I’m reeling from the last time. Take a seat. Gorilla Legs said you needed to talk.”

  Arn took off his hat and dropped into a chair. “Did you see Ana Maria’s broadcast last night?”

  Oblanski nodded. “She all but came out and accused the RSL of being directly involved in the veterans’ deaths. And that horseshit disclaimer would mean nothing to the RSL attorneys. But why broadcast that if she has no proof? If we have no proof?”

  “She thinks if she pushes hard enough in her broadcasts that it will force the killer to make a play and slip up.”

  “That’s a dangerous line she walks,” Oblanski said. “I don’t have enough men in the department available to be her full-time bodyguards.”

  “Which is why I’m here. Doc was at Ana Maria’s broadcast last night.”

  “You sure?”

  “If you go to the TV station and review their tape, you’ll see Doc right at the end walking away.”

  “Shit!” Oblanski punched a button on his phone and Gorilla Legs’ raspy voice asked what the hell he wanted. “Get Sergeant Roth on the line. Tell him to ask his two officers on the Villarreal case last night why the hell they didn’t spot Doc Henry.”

  “I should have been there myself,” Arn said when Oblanski had disconnected. I’d know Doc in a crowd no matter how he disguises himself.”

  “We talked about that before,” Oblanski said, picking up a pencil and examining the eraser for a moment before gnawing on it. “Even if you spot him, I know you—you’ll confront him and that’ll lead to bad things for you. He’s already filed a report with us concerning that first night you talked with him at Mimi’s. Claims you threatened him by intimidation.” He held up his hand. “I know it’s bullshit, and I told him so. But it’s his right to file a report for the record.

  “I’m not going just sit around and wait for him to grab Ana Maria.”

  “As soon as I talk with Sergeant Roth I’ll make sure the officers on her detail are especially observant for him.” Oblanski turned in his chair and grabbed the coffee pot, the aroma strong.

  “Not tea this time?” Arn asked. “What’s the special occasion?”

  “The celebration is my old FTO, Hank Rydell in Seattle, found Beth Randall Schwartz. She moved from there a few years ago down the road to Olympia.”

  “Are you going to give me her phone number?”

  “It’s not going to be so easy. Hank tells me Beth might talk with a woman. She was reluctant to even admit who she was when Hank found her. She’s got a distrust of men; she won’t talk with you. And certainly didn’t t
o Hank.”

  “One of your female officers then?”

  Oblanski laughed. “You get funnier every time I talk with you. Sure, I’ll just tell the city council that I sent one of my women officers on an all-expense paid trip to Seattle to interview a woman who may or may not have absolutely any information about Frank Mosby’s or Leonard Mills’ deaths.”

  “Don’t forget the others—.”

  “As cold as it sounds, they are not within my jurisdiction. Sure, we’ll share information with other agencies, but spending that kind of money for an officer to traipse to Seattle is out of the question. Now if you could positively link Pudgy to any of those two deaths…”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Then you will have to line up another women to go there. I’d bet you could talk Gorilla Legs into going there and interviewing Beth.” Oblanski winked. “As long as you’re along to keep her company.”

  —

  Arn pulled into the TV station lot and parked beside Ana Maria’s Volkswagen. She leaned against it, arms crossed, a look of potential murder in her eyes.

  He climbed out of his Olds and walked around the car. “You’re right—someone did your VW a number.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch got all four tires. I’m waiting on the wrecker now.”

  Arn bent and ran his hand over one sidewall. It, like the other tires, had been slashed cleanly.

  “Someone wants me off the air pretty bad,” Ana Maria said. “I’d put my money on Colonel Jonah.” She hit the side of the VW. “Dammit, I just put new skins on it last month. Has there been any sign of him?”

  Arn shook his head. “Oblanski’s guys have been working with the FBI to find out where he’s emailing from. But just when they locate the ISP he’s making from, he send another from a different ISP.”

  “He’s got to surface sometime, right?” Arn had asked the chief in his office. “He can’t go back to that RSL compound or he’ll be caught.”