Hunting the Five Point Killer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  DeAngelo Damos has been the TV station manager since before Arn could remember. Perhaps before electricity was invented. The old Greek had a reputation of being hardnosed but fair with his reporters. If he threatened to pull Ana Maria off the special, he must have thought there was something to the threats. Especially after last night.

  “DeAngelo got a call from a man this morning telling him to stop my series. That’s actually the only reason I’m still involved with it. DeAngelo hates to be told what to do.”

  “What man?”

  Ana Maria shrugged. “DeAngelo didn’t recognize the voice, so he called the police.”

  Arn downed the wine in a gulp, like he did with beer. He was more a beer man. “I’d bet a paycheck the station records every incoming and outgoing call.”

  “DeAngelo’s line is always recorded. He made a copy and gave it to the detective. Now all we have to do is go around asking people at random to give a sample of their voice.” Ana Maria pushed her plate away, her casserole only half eaten. “The bad thing is that if he’s now getting threats to drop the special, I must be getting close. But … ”

  Arn finished his casserole and Danny dished up another helping. “Is there something to that ‘but’?”

  Ana Maria finished the last of her wine and dropped her fork on her plate before scooting her chair back. “I hate to admit it, but I’m scared shitless. Last night in the park … he came on so unexpectedly. I had no time to react.”

  Arn understood. When he was working the street, he could see danger long before it visited him. But when he retired, the same danger could come up and kick him in the behind and he wouldn’t see it coming. He’d been out of the police business just long enough to be losing his edge. And he couldn’t seem to get it back.

  “I thought, with your gun … ” She wiped a tear on her napkin. “But I was helpless last night. Now I’m not sure if I should go back to my apartment.” Arn saw her eyes water for the first time since she’d survived Doc Henry’s assault. She looked around the room. “Could I stay here? I don’t feel safe at my place.”

  Danny choked on casserole. Arn spilled the rest of his wine on the table. He quickly dabbed it with a paper towel while he regained his thoughts. “Maybe you missed something, but this place is barely livable for a couple old guys. I don’t know what we’d do with a—”

  “Girl? Damn you, Arn Anderson, I’m not some twenty-two-year-old girl on her first assignment for that Denver station. If you think I haven’t seen men in their whitey tighties, you’re mistaken.”

  “Well, you haven’t seen me. In mine,” Danny blurted out.

  “I’d rather be living in this place than cowering in my apartment waiting for that guy to jump me again.”

  “I guess it would be out of the question to ask you to hand the special off?” Arn asked. “Surely DeAngelo has someone in mind to take over?”

  “Nick Damos. DeAngelo’s grandson,” Ana Maria answered without hesitation. “He practically begged DeAngelo to let him run with it.” She tossed her napkin in the garbage. “After I developed it, Nick wants to run with it. What an assuming little prick. I’m seeing this through. Now whether I get any sleep at night, or stay awake with your gun pointed at the front door, is up to you.”

  Danny stood and tossed his paper plate in the garbage. “You two sit and visit. I’ll be in one of the other upstairs bedrooms. I think if I move some lumber around I can squeeze another Army cot in there.”

  Twenty-Four

  Ned Oblanski stared out the window, his lip quivering with rage. “What do you take us for, a bunch of rubes? Of course we checked out everyone Butch had sent to the joint over the years. And Gaylord and Johnny too, in case there was a connection. You come to my office and accuse us of incompetence.”

  Arn moved out of spittle range. “I didn’t accuse you of anything. There’s just nothing in Butch’s files that noted it was done.”

  “Well, it was. Now if that’s all you came in here for—”

  “You pissed at me for something besides this?”

  Oblanski sat with his arms crossed, and Arn remained silent. He often learned more from someone by keeping quiet and waiting for them to vent. Like Oblanski was about to do now. “You hear Johnny in that TV special?”

  “I was busy getting sliced up.”

  “So, I read the report. Too bad.” Arn thought a slight smile tugged at the corners of Oblanski’s mouth. “I’m pissed because Johnny went out of his way to praise Gaylord on the Five Point cases on television last night. Butch was so close to catching the son-of-a-bitch … ” Oblanski zinged a paper clip off a chair across the room. “That piss ant Gaylord was as useful as a condom machine in a convent. Butch did the heavy lifting on those cases.”

  “Sounds like you admired Butch?”

  “He was a brilliant investigator.”

  “But he treated you like crap,” Arn said. “You even threatened to beat the snot out of him.”

  “Who told you that?” Oblanski asked, then snapped his fingers. “Chief White.”

  “No comment. But you admit you hated Butch.”

  “He was an arrogant jerk, and I was the junior investigator then, so I caught everything that rolled downhill. I would have kicked the dog shit out of him, except … there was something about him that made me stop.”

  That something, Arn knew, was Butch’s temperament, his aura he projected as the alpha male. If Butch felt cornered, he’d come out swinging and snarling, and God help the man on the receiving end. Even someone as big as Ned Oblanski.

  “Now if there’s nothing else, I gotta do some police work.”

  “There is.” Arn opened his briefcase and took out his notes. “You’re still convinced Frank Dull Knife is the most likely suspect.”

  “He had the most to gain by Butch’s death.”

  “You don’t feel that way because you were both screwing Butch’s wife?”

  Oblanski stopped midway to stuffing Red Man tobacco in his cheek and his head dropped slightly. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do.” Arn set his papers on the chair, expecting Oblanski to lose his temper as he had a minute ago. “You were the phantom guy Hannah was dancing with that night. The one who gave her a ride home after the bars closed.”

  Oblanski spit the tobacco out in the garbage and rocked back on unsteady legs. “It was my night off. The Rusty Nail had a live band, and I danced whenever I got the chance.” He grabbed the back of his chair to steady himself and eased himself down. “There was this hot chick rubbing a greaseball’s leg, but the greaseball wasn’t paying her any attention.”

  “Frank was the greaseball?”

  Oblanski nodded. “Hannah was a bit old for me at the time, but she looked … itchy. So I took her to the dance floor, and she came on to me.”

  “Did you know she was Butch’s wife?”

  Oblanski shook his head. “I never saw her before that night. I thought she was just another hottie needing to get short-dicked.”

  “But you knew Frank?”

  “I knew he had that chickenshit mechanic shop by the refinery, is all,” Oblanski said. “Frank got pissed and grabbed me on the dance floor. Wanted to fight me. I’d have gladly obliged if the bouncers hadn’t given him the bum’s rush.” Oblanski stared at the floor, never looking directly at Arn. “I never took Hannah to bed. After we left the Nail, we found a place to park. We were pretty heavy into the necking when she asked what I did for a living. When I told her I was a cop, she burst out laughing and told me who she was. It took me about twenty seconds to zip my pants and fire up the car. I drove directly to her place. When I came around the block, I saw the lights of the coroner’s wagon and the squad cars. I kicked her out at the end of the block and drove home.” He stood and faced Arn. “She didn’t tell anyone about that night. Except Frank, I guess.”

  Arn closed his noteboo
k. “Frank thinks you had a good reason to kill Butch: Hannah.”

  “Because I picked up a chick at the bar who happened to be another detective’s wife? Who the hell are you, accusing me—”

  “And the way you resented Butch, the way he treated you like crap, would be motive in any investigator’s book,” Arn said, bracing himself should Oblanski lose his temper once again.

  Oblanski pulled the blinds aside and stared out the window. “Are you going to tell Chief White what you just told me?” he said at last.

  “Let me sit on it for a while. There may be a conflict of interest if you’re in charge of reopening Butch’s murder, but it’s not for me to determine.”

  “Thanks for that,” Oblanski said over his shoulder.

  Arn shouldered his man bag and started for the door when the phone rang. Oblanski answered it and closed his eyes tightly, his face scrunching as he held up his hand for Arn to stop. “Of course,” Oblanski said. “I’ll come right away.”

  He hung up and grabbed his sheep skin coat. “Want to take a ride?”

  “Where to?”

  “The hospital. Johnny’s been shot.”

  Twenty-Five

  Arn sat in the thin vinyl padded chair in the ER waiting room, sipping hospital Starbucks while he waited for news about Johnny. Oblanski had left the waiting room when the mayor’s office called, leaving Arn alone with a young couple huddled together in one corner. They were awaiting word on their infant, who was fighting for her life after crawling under the sink and ingesting rat poison. Every time someone in hospital scrubs walked by they jumped, expecting the worst, then settling back when the scrubs walked on through the room.

  Across from them an elderly mother slumped in her chair, eyes puffy from crying. Arn had sat with her earlier as she told him her middle-aged son had overdosed on sleeping pills and Thunderbird wine. The emergency room doctor had given him a fifty-fifty chance. Arn had held her hand until she reassured him she was all right. And she had been, until the ER doctor entered the room, and Arn knew by the graven look etched across his weathered face that the mother would have no good news tonight. Arn had delivered many death notices in his thirty years as a lawman, and he never got used to it. Apparently the doctor hadn’t either, as he cried along with the mother while she buried her face in his shoulder. The doctor softly rocked her, stroking the old woman’s head until a nurse entered the room and led the woman away, freeing the doctor to attend to another tragedy.

  The emergency room door opened and Arn caught a glimpse of another doctor, covered in blood, trying to save a woman Arn heard was run over by a car in front of the Air Guard base. Blood caked his gown, and his splash shield was smeared so badly he could barely see through it. A nurse pulled a sheet over the dead woman while the doctor stripped off his gown, mask, and paper booties. He tossed them into a biohazard container by the door. When he emerged from the trauma room a moment later, he wore jeans and a white shirt with no visible sign he’d been covered in a victim’s blood moments ago. But Arn knew the effects would stay with the young intern long after this night ended.

  Oblanski re-entered the waiting room and the young couple jumped in anticipation. When they saw he was no physician, they returned to praying softly in the corner. Oblanski motioned to Arn, and he followed him into an empty room a couple doors down from the waiting room.

  “I didn’t want it this way, but the mayor says I’m the acting chief until … ” Oblanski looked at the wall, as if he could see Johnny lying in his bed in intensive care. “Until he comes out of it.” He rubbed his forehead. “God, I hope he pulls through. I may have had words with Johnny, but I’d give anything … ”

  Arn laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I know you would. And every other officer does too.” He gently led Oblanski to a chair beside an empty bed. “What did the doctors say about Johnny’s condition?”

  Oblanski looked up, his forehead furrowed, mouth down turned. “He’s in an induced coma. Docs gave him a better than fifty-fifty chance if they can keep the pain under control. He’s a strong man. I have to believe he’ll beat the odds.”

  “I hope so.” Arn scooted a chair close beside Oblanski. “Give me the headline version of what happened.”

  Oblanski leaned back and white-knuckled the arms of the chair. “Johnny pulled into his driveway after work. His wife heard the car door shut, and he started talking with someone, but she paid them no mind. He often talked with neighbors when he got home, she told the responding patrolman. She went back to cooking supper when she heard two, maybe three shots. By the time she got to the door, Johnny was down in the driveway and the shooter was gone. Doctors dug one slug out him, a .380. Too deformed for any ballistic match, but enough to know it was a hollow point. 90 grains. My crime scene tech thinks the state DCI Lab could enhance it.”

  “You’re sure of the caliber?”

  Oblanski rang his hands together. “We found two spent .380 cases in the driveway.” He stood and walked to the sink. “The one that did the damage was a contact shot. Powder stripling on Johnny’s chest, muzzle imprint. Meaning someone surprised him. Shot him before he could react.”

  “Or the shooter was someone Johnny knew.”

  “Either way,” Oblanski said, “Johnny must have sensed something wrong with whoever he was talking with.”

  “Is that the wife’s opinion?”

  “No,” Oblanski answered, “it’s mine. Johnny’s pant leg was pulled up from going for his backup gun. Only reason for him to go for it is if he felt threatened.” Oblanski bent to the sink and splashed water onto his face. He patted dry with a paper towel. “What the hell did Johnny do to make someone mad enough to want to kill him? He hasn’t worked the street as an investigator in years. He hasn’t put anyone behind bars in a decade. He’s the proverbial good ol’ boy.”

  Arn stretched out his legs and tilted his head to the ceiling, thinking just that. There was only one thing in his mind, and it wasn’t coincidence. “It’s got to tie in with his TV appearance.”

  Oblanski nodded and tossed the paper towels in a trash bin. The wad hit the rim and fell out, but he made no attempt to pick it up. “I’ve been kicking that around. Maybe Butch’s killer is still here in Cheyenne. Maybe I was right all along—maybe Frank killed Butch and he doesn’t want the case reopened.” Oblanski buried his face in his hands. “Why shoot Johnny? Now?”

  “Because he was the most visible face of the reopened investigation,” Arn said. “Except me and Ana Maria.”

  Oblanski nodded.

  “Are you ready to admit she needs protection now?”

  “All right.” Oblanski threw up his hands. “So I made a mistake. I can spare one officer to keep guard either at your house or Ana Maria’s. Your pick.”

  “She’s staying at my place until the TV special blows over.”

  Oblanski raised his eyebrows. “You old dog, you.”

  New drywall hung on the walls of the entryway as Arn entered, but he barely noticed. Nor did he pay much attention to heat from the new furnace as he staggered, dog-tired, to the coat room and opened the door to hang his jacket up.

  “Your boots muddy?” Danny yelled from the kitchen. He came around the corner wearing an apron adorned with a rooster and wielding a pepper mill menacingly in Arn’s direction. A new floor lamp cast an evil glow over his anorexic face. “Take ’em off.”

  “Take them off?” Arn looked around the room. “The carpeting is gone. All that’s left is the subfloor—”

  “Take them off. I don’t feel like sweeping any more floors today.”

  Arn leaned against the wall and tugged off his boots.

  “And don’t lean against there. I just taped and mudded that wall.”

  Arn set his boots on a piece of cardboard and hobbled into what was shaping up to be a usable kitchen. Danny checked a meal in the toaster oven before grabbing butter from a fridge th
at hadn’t been there that morning. “Where’d that come from, and don’t tell me the dumpster.”

  “Of course not,” Danny answered. “It’s too big to fit in the dumpster. It came from the fridge fairy.”

  Arn started to protest, then gave up. Danny had his own way of acquiring things. Arn just hoped the police didn’t come knocking on the door wanting to recover them.

  “Where’s Ana Maria?” Danny asked. “Supper’s ready.”

  “She’s staying late at the station,” Arn answered.

  “Is that a good idea, her leaving work in the dark?”

  “Oblanski finally admitted she needs police protection. He’s assigning an officer to her.” Arn pulled a chair out from under the card table and plopped down. He closed his eyes and rubbed away a migraine forming at the fringes of his temples.

  “You look like hell.” Danny grabbed a pie plate from the oven and set it on the impromptu counter. “Have a hard day?”

  “The hardest.” Arn leaned over and grabbed the pot of coffee. “Somebody shot Johnny White today.”

  Danny stood holding a serving spoon over the chicken pot pie. “I saw it on the news. Tell me the SOB’s in custody.”

  Arn shook his head. “Oblanski has no clue who shot him. Every detective in the division’s been rattling doors all day, but not a solitary neighbor saw a thing.”

  “Johnny alive?’

  “Barely,” Arn answered. “Oblanski wanted to question him for a moment, but the surgeon said bringing him out of his coma for even a brief time might kill him.”

  “Dammed shame. Johnny was a nice guy.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew him.”

  Danny served up supper and set the plates on the table. “After a sort. He’d stop me when he saw me walking the streets downtown. Ask if I needed anything. I guess he felt obligated, him being an Indian too.” He grabbed a plate of buttermilk biscuits and set them beside a stick of butter melting on a plate.