Hunting the Five Point Killer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Ana Maria Villarreal says good night. To me, in her special way, and promises another airing tomorrow night. “And with your help, we will learn who killed these men. Starting with Butch Spangler.” I take deep, calming breaths, and at last I can turn off the television set.

  Will I watch tomorrow? Of course. I cannot not watch. For every time she goes over the facts in the Five Point Killings, excitement shoots through me like I’m pissing on an electric fence. Excitement that I tossed aside when I—and only because I chose to—stopped killing. Now I am afraid the only way to keep the urges in check is to have knowledge of where the investigation is headed. Ana Maria will give me that knowledge, every night at seven o’clock.

  I hope it works. Because I still tremble with anticipation.

  Five

  People rubbernecked at Arn as he pulled out of Home Depot like they’d never seen a finely restored classic muscle car pulling a trailer-load of building materials across town. With mud and snow tires that slid his Olds 4-4-2 sideways through the intersection, Arn turned east onto Lincolnway. He thought once again about the folly of restoring his mother’s house—now his by decree. His great-grandfather had built the place when he worked the Cheyenne-to-Deadwood stagecoach route as a young man. At the time, the house had every luxury one could hope for in the Magic City: indoor plumbing, electric lighting, even a drive-through carriage port to off-load groceries from the buckboard when the weather turned nasty. That was in the 1870s, and Arn was certain that was also the last time anyone had performed any maintenance on the house.

  When his mother was still alive, Arn would drive up from Denver on Mother’s Day and Thanksgiving and Christmas. And sometimes she would talk him into visiting on Easter. It had been one of the few times a year that Arn would step foot inside a church. He would help his mother into her best Easter dress, the same one she wore every year. He’d offer to buy her another, but she’d refuse. It was the dress she’d worn the last time she and Arn’s father had been to church, the week before he died in 1978. They would mount the steps at Saints Constantine and Helen Greek Orthodox Church, and Arn would stay at his mother’s side while she venerated the icons that lined the church vestibule. When he waited in the pew while she joined the others in line for communion, she would look at him and a sadness would cross her face because he hadn’t converted to Orthodoxy.

  Whenever he’d visit his mother, he’d stay at Little America. He could never bring himself to stay in the house of his youth: too many memories of his drunk father and his thick, stiff, inflexible police belt that was never far out of reach. And as abusive as his father had been, he regretted that his father had passed out on the railroad tracks that night thirty-six years ago. A Union Pacific highballed through and made his father’s Ford sedan into a hunk of metal strung out for a mile until the train shut down.

  Arn had boarded up his mother’s old house twenty-five years ago when she died, and he never went back, paying the taxes by mail. He hadn’t seen the old house again until two years ago when passing through on his way to a Yellowstone vacation. He’d stopped at the courthouse to write a check to the treasurer for current taxes. The clerk had looked at him like he’d escaped from the state hospital in Evanston. “So, you’re the one who wastes money on taxes. Most places in that part of town are condemned,” she said, spitting tobacco juice into an Orange Crush can. “You sure you want to keep this Homeless Hilton?”

  Arn had pocketed the receipt and driven by the house. Rain had gotten into the shattered windows, and the front door hung by a single rusty hinge. A hail storm had trashed the roof sometime since he’d buried his mother, the cedar shingles loose and flapping in the stiff Wyoming wind. One of the support spindles his great grand­father had spokeshaved out of a hickory log to support the full-length porch had rotted through, and the overhang drooped on one side like a lazy eye that threatened to close.

  He hadn’t gone inside that day: he didn’t want to spoil his vacation. He’d had the power turned off and the water disconnected when his mother died. And though some part of him wanted to be rid of the house, another part tugged at him to keep it. The crazy part of him.

  “Why don’t you let the house go back to the county for taxes?” Cailee asked the morning after his mother’s funeral. They had gathered what few things he wanted to keep that were hers, and Cailee had shuddered visibly on leaving the house. “That tree.” She’d pointed to a bare-branched cottonwood his grandfather had planted in the front, its gnarled fingers reaching skyward to an unseen god. “It gives me the heebie-jeebies. And no offense, but your mother didn’t keep the place up very good. It just isn’t worth keeping.”

  “I’ll go back there someday and fix it up.”

  “When? You don’t have time for our own house.”

  “Someday,” Arn had promised her. And promised himself. He had imagined then—and many times since—that he’d restore the house to all its former splendor. Even in the years since Cailee’s death, he kicked the idea around of driving up from Denver on weekends to work on it. But he never did. Even after he’d retired from Metro Homicide and had the time, he never did. Yet when Ana Maria called and lined up this consulting gig with the TV station, he told himself he finally had the money to restore it. And the time.

  He downshifted. The Oldsmobile’s mellow pipes announced his arrival as he pulled to the curb in front of the house. When he looked at it, he realized he might have to go back for more plywood to board the place up. Most of the ground floor windows had been broken last time he was here, and now even those windows on the upstairs gables needed boarded up. Graffiti had been spray-painted across the stuccoed front of the house, and one limb of the dying cottonwood had broken off and crashed through the bay window. The fallen mailbox in the shape of a caboose—the only thing Arn’s father had contributed to the house—lay rusting and nearly hidden in two feet of overgrown weeds.

  Arn grabbed the door handle and started to climb out, when he paused. Perhaps he should do what his wife suggested years ago: abandon the house. Let it go back to the county. He was certain it would need to be gutted, between the rain and snow that had rotted the insides and the critters that surely must have set up camp in there. He wasn’t sure he had that much time on his hands. Or the skill. He could swing a hammer. But not well. He could even measure a line. Though he was usually off. This place required more talent than he possessed, and he slid back behind the wheel of his car.

  He hit the ignition and shoved the clutch in, then dropped his head on the steering wheel and turned the car off. He climbed out and grabbed his work gloves before slamming the door. “I might not be Bob Vila, but I’ll do my best.”

  As he walked to the back of the trailer and dropped the tailgate, he noticed a drop cord running from somewhere down the block into the house. Snow had nearly covered the electrical cord, bright orange peeking through patches of weeds that was the lawn of his youth.

  He stepped away and traced the cord. Music came from the house, rising and falling, heavy drums and screeching guitars, as Iron Butterfly belted out “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” from somewhere deep inside.

  Arn carefully opened the car door and grabbed his .38 snubbie from the glove box. He approached the front door and ducked to avoid the sagging porch beam, the volume getting louder. He grabbed onto the door knob and it broke off in his hand. Tossing it on the ground, he squeezed past the one-hinged front door.

  He paused just inside the door to allow his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. As he suspected, water had damaged the walls and ceilings. But now was not the time to lament. He shuffled through a snowdrift that had blown in through a broken window, careful not to scrape against the wall and make noise. Not that it would have been heard over the blaring music. He stepped over broken beer bottles, past the carcass of an unidentifiable animal that seemed to grin up at him from what had been his mother’s sewing room. He placed his hand on a musty, moldy, mildewed wall that reverbera
ted from the heavy bass in the next room and kept inching closer to the sound. Light from the adjoining room cast eerie shadows on the blackened and weathered paisley-papered walls. He tightened his grip on the gun and breathed deeply. He peeked around the corner of the wall into the kitchen while holding his gun beside his leg.

  An emaciated, gray-grizzled man lounged in a torn bean bag chair in front of a boom box. His stringy ponytail bounced on his thin chest in time with the music as one slippered foot tapped the floor. He read from a book by the light of a single naked bulb overhead. It swayed from wind that blew past the cardboard he’d propped against the broken windows.

  The man grabbed a can of Pepsi and sipped, then returned it to the top of a plastic milk crate beside a half-eaten pack of Oreos. He leaned back, reading, his feet catching heat from a space heater positioned under a wire strung across the room. Socks and tattered Fruit of the Looms dried on the cord.

  Arn stepped around the corner, his gun still concealed beside his leg. “What are you doing here?”

  The old man jumped. His book flew across the room and hit a wall. He scrambled to stand. His arms flailed the air and he knocked over his can of Pepsi. His eyes darted in the direction of the back door.

  “I said: What are you doing here?”

  “Don’t come any closer,” the man stammered. He jammed one hand into the pocket of his sweatpants and thrust it toward Arn like a lame erection. His other hand held his sweats up over his meatless hips. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot.”

  “You got your finger in your pocket.”

  “I got a gun.”

  “No you don’t,” Arn said, and brought his snubbie from beside his leg. “I’ve got a gun.”

  The man’s shoulders slumped and he brought his hand out of his sweats. “All right. You want this place, I guess I’ll have to move on.”

  “What? Turn off that racket!”

  The man bent and flicked the power button on his ghetto blaster. “You got something against quality music?”

  “I got something against squatters in my house.”

  “Your house?” The man straightened to his full five-feet-and-change and tossed his ponytail over his back. “Did you buy this rat trap? I wouldn’t.”

  Arn slipped his gun into his trouser pocket and stepped closer. “Well, you thought it was a perfectly fine house up until a moment ago.” He waved his arm around the kitchen. “What are you doing here? And just who the hell are you?”

  “Danny.”

  “Danny who?”

  “Just Danny.”

  “Like Liberace?”

  Danny smiled a set of perfect pearlies that contrasted with his dark complexion. “More like Fabio.”

  “Still doesn’t answer what you’re doing here.”

  Danny rested his hands on his hips and pouted his lips like he owned the house. “This was my house until you busted in here.” He grabbed a pillowcase inside the milk carton and walked to the makeshift clothesline. He snatched underwear and socks from the line and stuffed them inside. “What I’m doing—was doing—is keeping out of the cold.” He threw on a faded green Army field jacket with the zipper broken and closed it with the solitary button remaining. He exaggerated a look past the cardboard to the broken window. “Hope I don’t freeze out there tonight.” He warmed his hands with his breath. “Gets cold when the sun sets. Not sure if I’ll make it out there—”

  “Don’t guilt-trip me into letting you stay. And just who are you, to break in here?”

  Danny’s mouth drooped in profound sadness. Like he’d practiced it a time or two. “I’m just some old Indian making his way in the world … ”

  Arn groaned. “Just what I need, to adopt some homeless Indian.”

  “I wasn’t homeless until you came along. And after all the work I’ve done to the fix the place up.”

  And he had. Arn looked around in disbelief at Danny’s remodel job. He’d cut an empty cat litter pail to make a dresser of sorts, underwear and a clean shirt folded neatly inside. An antique stainless steel bedpan-turned-wash-basin rested atop an overturned trash can, a jug of water beside it. Toothbrush, razor, and can of Barbasol were arranged neatly beside it.

  On the opposite side of the room, Danny had covered a thin mattress with a wool blanket. A stuffed cat sewn to the pillowcase seemed to wink at Arn with its one sequined eye, the other one missing.

  “How long you been squatting here?”

  “I resent—”

  “How long?”

  Danny shrugged. “Since this summer when I put the run on some kids who snuck in here to smoke some weed. But I didn’t bust the windows out. And I didn’t tag the house with that crappy spray paint. This”—he exaggerated waving his arm around the room like he was introducing Arn to his castle—“is what I did to the place.” He jerked his thumb at the door. “Now all I get for my efforts is tossed out in the cold. The so very cold … ” He trailed off.

  Arn leaned against a wall. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “When was the last time you ate?”

  Danny’s eyes darted to the half-pack of Oreos. “Been a while.”

  “Would you eat a burger and fries if I bought some?”

  The old man held up his hands as if to ward off charity. “Danny don’t accept handouts. Now if you had some job … ”

  “I got a load of plywood and nails on my trailer I could use a hand unloading. I’d ask you, but—no offense—you don’t look like you’re in any shape to work.”

  “I’m thin, but I can work.”

  “All right then,” Arn said. “You help me unload and board up the windows, and I’ll spring for some groceries.”

  Danny grinned. Those perfect teeth reflected the swinging bulb. “Now that’s more like it. Where’s the wood?”

  Arn teetered on a milk crate Danny had produced from another room. He’d finished his Whopper and fries while Danny was only three bites into his meal. Arn thought the man was stalling, soaking up as much warmth from the space heater as he could before he got evicted. But as Arn studied him, he realized he wasn’t stalling. He was just a finicky eater. He’d laid one napkin across his ragged sweatpants, another to cover his milk crate. He would take a small bite of burger and dab at the corners of his mouth. Small bite and dab. He was midway to another nibble when he caught Arn staring at him. “What?”

  “You’re taking an awfully long time for someone who hasn’t eaten for a while.”

  Danny carefully set his burger on the napkin. He picked up his soda and sipped daintily. “I eat slow and enjoy my food. It’s how I keep lean and trim.”

  “And your physical condition has nothing to do with you having no job, no income, and after tonight—if I let you stay—you have nowhere to go?”

  Danny finished the last of his Pepsi and leaned back in his bean bag chair. “My economic condition has nothing to do with lean genes.” He slapped his chest hard enough that Arn thought he would knock himself out. “We Indians have made do with what the white man gives us for a long time.”

  Arn finished his own soda, trying to summon enough courage to give Danny the bum’s rush when he finished eating.

  “What are you going to do with this place?” Danny asked.

  “Do? After I fix it up, I’m going to live here.”

  “This century?” Danny shook his head as he looked around the room. Plaster fell away in chunks from moldy walls. Water-damaged floors had turned mushy and threatened to drop into the crawl space. The kitchen was the best room in the house, Danny had said, and still it reeked of moisture. “You handy enough to renovate it?”

  “It wasn’t my profession, but I can swing a hammer.”

  Danny laughed and wiped his mouth. “I don’t know when you last swung that hammer, but this dump—no offense—is going to take more than what you got. I saw how you tried nailing that p
lywood to the windows. A carpenter you ain’t.”

  “And I suppose you are?”

  Danny thrust out his hand. “Go ahead, shake my hand.”

  Arn shook Danny’s hand.

  “What do you feel?” Danny asked.

  “No instant attraction, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “I’m not.” Danny jerked his hands free. “My hands are rougher than a cob while yours are smooth. Soft.”

  “Your point?”

  “These”—Danny held up his hands—“have been used for hard work all my life. Yours haven’t seen a day’s work since, when? Your school days?”

  Arn wanted to tell Danny he’d hired out to local ranches during school: springtime calving, summers haying and branding. Arn had developed into enough of a horseman that he’d gotten as much work as he wanted around Cheyenne. But Danny was right: nowadays, his hands were soft. “And you think you know more about houses than I do?”

  “You recall when we boarded up the windows, you had to take five and six swings to my one?” He wadded up his empty burger wrapper and tossed it into a Walmart bag. “I’ve swung a hammer a time or two in my life. And pulled wire. And sweated pipe. I’ve done it all. And I could do it here, if I had the materials.”

  “I sense a proposition coming.”

  Danny took a half-smoked cigarette butt from his pocket and lit it. “I’ll swap some honest hard work for a place to crash out of the cold.”

  “Honest like that drop cord you ran from the neighbor’s house?”

  “They’re on vacation,” Danny said. He blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. “And it’s only illegal if you get caught.”

  “When was the last time you were caught?”

  “Who says I ever was?”

  Arn ran his hand over a faded design inked on Danny’s forearm. “You didn’t get this from a shop: It’s a jail house tat. Not like this one.” He traced a tattoo of an Army First Infantry patch that adorned Danny’s other forearm. “And every time I got close while you ate, you moved your food away slightly. Like I was going to steal it.”