“There’s nothing unusual on them.” Oblanski anticipated Arn’s question. “It’s not visiting hours, so there weren’t a lot of people: three construction workers coming in for a bite at the cafeteria. A nurse’s assistant and a janitor tall enough to be our man. But all checked out.”
“If he got into our hospital,” Moore said, “it was from the only entrance with no camera.”
“Could you play that again,” Arn asked, and Moore rewound and started the recording. “This guy came up on the camera’s blind side. And when he came out of Johnny’s room, he looked to the side where the camera couldn’t pick up his face. This guy either knows the hospital or he cased it.” He turned to Moore. “Pull the security tapes from the day Johnny was shot until now.”
“That’s last Friday.”
“It is.”
“What do I do with them?” Moore asked.
“Sit down with your staff and review them. If this guy came in to get a lay of the hospital floor, he’ll be on tape.”
“But that’ll take—”
“Moore,” Oblanski said, and Moore nodded.
“You mentioned there was an entrance with no surveillance cameras,” Arn said.
Moore turned off the TV. “First floor maintenance door. It’s where deliveries are made. It’s in the old part of the hospital. Most delivery people—UPS, Post Office, medical company suppliers—all have keys.”
“And who would know that besides delivery folks?”
“Everyone at the hospital,” Moore said. “It’s even covered in first-day orientation.”
When Captain Moore left to pull the tapes and make a copy for them, Arn turned to Oblanski. “Johnny’s death was neither of our faults. Whoever this is”—he pointed to the freeze-framed killer on the monitor—“is calculating. He thinks things through. He’s undoubtedly Johnny’s shooter, and he knew if Johnny came to, he might identify him.”
Oblanski stuffed his lip with Copenhagen, hospital policy be damned. “Moore’s going to pull the tapes. But we don’t have squat on this guy. Unless he’s a sprinter and made it out of the hospital before it was locked down, he’s common enough to blend in with everyone else here at the time. But maybe something will turn up with delivery companies.” Oblanski had called the detective division and given them a listing of every company who delivered to the hospital, to find out which of delivery people had a key to the maintenance door.
He grabbed a pencil lying on the conference table and chewed the end until it broke. Just like Johnny did. “I had to call the mayor when this happened,” he continued. “He’s made an emergency appointment. I’m now the permanent police chief, though I wish to hell Johnny were still in that position.”
Arn leaned back and rubbed his forehead. “I’ve been looking closely at Steve and Gaylord’s deaths in relation to Butch.”
“Go on.”
“I can, with a degree of certainty, say that Steve’s death was no accident.”
“Bullshit! Bobbie Madden was there—”
“Every investigator makes mistakes. Even someone as experienced as Madden was.” Arn explained about the single feather Dr. Rough had found in Steve’s windpipe. “The photos show two pillows—they look like couch pillows to me—partially burned and lying on the floor beside the recliner. I think someone smothered Steve with a couch pillow and started that fire. And he may have been killed a full day before the fire.”
“What the hell’s that?” Oblanski poured water from a pitcher in the middle of the table. “How did you come up with that conclusion?”
“Rough noted larvae found in Steve’s throat, meaning flies fed on the body and went through their cycle. It would put the time of death at least a day before. Probably a mite more.”
“You didn’t know Steve DeBoer, but he was a stout guy. Someone just didn’t smother him without a fight.” Oblanski looked around for another pencil. “And the photos clearly show there was no struggle. How do you account for that?”
Arn shook his head. “I can’t yet. But if I could look at the evidence … ”
“It wasn’t saved. Steve’s death was ruled accidental and everything connected was destroyed years ago. Besides, right now I got too much to do worrying about Johnny’s murder.”
Arn stood and walked to the monitor. “There’s just too much that points to all this”—he tapped the screen—“being tied in with Butch’s murder. Whether it was Frank Dull Knife as you suspected, or the Five Point Killer like Johnny thought, you need to admit that ten years ago, someone killed Steve as well as Butch. And he killed another officer today.”
Oblanski slumped lower in his chair. “What can I do?”
“Assign as many officers as you can spare to reopen Steve’s case.”
Oblanski tried rubbing new forehead wrinkles of responsibility. With Johnny’s death, he’d inherited more headaches than he’d bargained for. “I have to talk with the crime scene tech working Johnny’s hospital room. When I finish, I’ll go to my office and start freeing up people to work on the connection between Butch and Steve.”
Arn motioned to the monitor, which was showing the man in the mask and gown turning away from the camera. “And tell your guys to be on their toes. I wouldn’t want to meet this guy unprepared.”
Forty-Three
Arn walked out of the conference room and started toward the parking lot when he spotted Jefferson Dawes walking down the hall toward him. He was rubbing shoulders with a twenty-something nurse in blue scrubs who giggled beside him, her hand brushing his. When he looked up and saw Arn, he stopped and bent toward the woman, whispering something to her. She headed down the opposite hallway, looking back and smiling at Jefferson before disappearing into an elevator.
“A running partner is all,” he volunteered.
“None of my business who you’re friendly with.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jefferson glared down at Arn.
Arn shrugged. “Don’t read anything into it. What you do is your affair. But while you’re here, do you have a moment?”
Jefferson checked his watch. “You got about five minutes. A patient’s waiting for me.”
Arn motioned to an empty room, and they stepped inside. Jefferson stood by the doorway as if he wanted to escape. “Adelle said you drilled her about our affair. She might be ashamed to admit it, but we had that affair while we were both still married. So if you think you’re going to use that against us … ” He trailed off.
“When did your wife find out?” Arn asked.
“She left me.”
Arn kept silent, waiting for Jefferson to continue. True confession time once again, Arn thought.
“My wife cleaned out our checking account and left with that science teacher from South High.” His eyes darted to the hallway. “At least that was the rumor around town.”
“So Adelle told me. And the private investigator you hired came up short?”
“He never found her,” Jefferson said. “Is this going somewhere?”
“You ever meet Gaylord?”
“Why do you want to know that?” Jefferson stuttered. Stalling.
“I’m just trying to get a handle on his death ten years ago.”
“That’s right. You’re being paid to come up with some connection to Butch Spangler. But to answer your question, I met him once.”
“At his house?”
Eyes darted to the door. Jefferson wanted to be anywhere besides talking with Arn about Gaylord Fournier. “Gaylord called me to his house a couple weeks before he … died. He told me he didn’t appreciate that I was having an affair with his wife.” He laughed nervously. “But he didn’t much object, either. He was more concerned with his image than his wife messing around. I didn’t much worry about it at the time. Adelle said he had his own thing going.”
“Which was?”
“Obviou
sly, masturbating while he hung from the rafters,” Jefferson said, then jerked his thumb down the hallway. “Ask that creepy bastard. He was pals with that sicko.”
Pieter stood with his head bent, talking with Meander in the hallway outside the nurses’ station.
“Now, if there’s nothing else, make an appointment with my office if you wish to talk again.” Jefferson kept staring at Pieter as he walked past him and into a patient’s room.
Pieter and Meander walked toward Arn. “That guy gives me the creeps,” Pieter said.
“He said the same thing about you.” Arn motioned Pieter aside, and Meander stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “You boys gave a good visit,” she said and headed for the elevator.
Pieter looked after her, a worried look on his face. “I should be grateful we can catch lunch now and again, with all the overtime she’s been putting in.” He looked around furtively and led Arn to a small break room, empty this time of day. “Meander said Johnny was murdered a couple hours ago.”
Arn nodded. “By someone posing as a physician.”
“Now that gives me the creeps.” Pieter shuddered. “I’m worried to death for her. What if he’s still in the building … ” He gazed around as he walked to the vending machine. “Why would anyone want to smother Johnny to death?”
“Why would anyone want to shoot him to begin with?” Arn opened his bag and took out his notebook, jotting down what Jefferson had told him about Gaylord. “I’m convinced it all ties in with your father’s murder. I got near-conclusive proof that Steve was murdered—”
“No way!” Pieter said. “Steve was the nicest man. When the team returned from the game in Casper the day after the fire, Dad told me about it. He said it was accidental. I just can’t believe someone murdered him, too.”
“But you believe Gaylord died an autoerotic death?”
“I do now.” Pieter looked at the ceiling, and a sadness came with the remembering. “In Gaylord’s basement, he had this long mirror propped against the wall. I asked if he needed help hanging it somewhere, and he snapped at me. He asked what I was insinuating. Like he got paranoid or something. Or on drugs. Anyway, he kicked me out of his basement and told me never to come back again. That was … ” Pieter thought. “It was two weeks before Adelle found him hanging.” He eyed the vending machine. “You don’t think his death was anything but an accident?”
“If you call ‘stupid enough not to work out an escape plan when you’re hanging from your basement rafters’ an accident,” Arn answered.
Pieter walked to the Vending Machine of Death that offered sandwiches restocked once a week. Or every other week. Every squad room Arn had worked out of had a Vending Machine of Death, so-called because only the hungriest of men were brave enough stick their money in and chance E.coli. Or some other ailment. Pieter was such a brave man, and he ripped open the ham and cheese and wolfed it down. At least Pieter was within walking distance of the emergency room.
“I’d like to get into that old house of Gaylord and Adelle’s you bought,” Arn said.
“Why?” Pieter sat on a chair and washed the sandwich down with Mountain Dew.
“I’d like to get a look at Gaylord’s man cave.”
“Of course.” Pieter wiped mustard off his mouth with a paper towel. “I can meet you there tomorrow afternoon.”
“Can we get in”—Arn checked his watch—“sometime after six tonight?”
“Can’t tonight. I’m taking Meander out for her birthday.”
Arn looked down at Pieter, thinking about what Georgia had said about Pieter looking more like Arn than like Butch, with his blond hair and blue eyes. Except for the fact that Pieter was a couple inches taller and forty pounds lighter, he could have been Arn’s son. “I’d really like to get in there tonight,” he said again. “If my hunch is right, it might help solve your dad’s death. And the Five Point cases.”
“I don’t know.” Pieter paced the room, a concerned look etched on his face. “I had the power disconnected years ago when I bought it for taxes. I boarded it up right then, too, but the bums have been breaking in so regularly I gave up.” He stood and paced the room. “It’s not safe there at night. Aunt Georgia would just kill me if anything happened to you in there. I wouldn’t feel right.”
“I’m used to a little danger in my life.” Arn smiled.
Pieter kicked the floor with the toe of his shoe. “I guess you could go in,” he said at last.
“Do you have a set of keys I can borrow?”
“You won’t need any. The locks have been broken so many times, I gave up replacing them. You can go right inside.” He laughed. “As long as you don’t spend the night with the hobos.”
“Thanks,” Arn said. “I’ll go right after supper. There’s just a few things I need to take a look at in the basement, and then I’ll be out of there.”
“Okay. But be careful. I’ve already called the police twice this month on some nasty-looking bums I caught squatting there.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Arn pointed to the rest of Pieter’s sandwich tossed in the trash can. “I’ll be in only slightly more danger than you were just now.”
Forty-Four
“I’m being followed,” Ana Maria said as they sat looking at the crime scene photos.
“What do you mean, you’re being followed? By who?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She nibbled the corner of a cookie. “It’s probably nothing.”
“And you didn’t tell me before this?” Arn asked. “When did this start?”
“Today. I heard the coroner paged to go to the hospital just before Oblanski got there and called for his forensics team. By the time I arrived, they had the place locked down. I tried to get some on-camera interviews with the charge nurse on Johnny’s floor, but she was too frightened—”
“Wait a minute,” Danny said. He refilled their cups from a carafe and sat back down. “I thought you said the hospital was on lockdown. How’d you get in?”
“It was my cameraman’s idea, actually,” Ana Maria said. “We hung around the maintenance door and waited for someone to show up with a key.”
“Like UPS or FedEx?” Arn asked.
“More like some guy dropping off a van he’d serviced and taking another one for an oil change. When he let himself in the door I kind of … sweet-talked him into letting us inside.”
“You said were being followed?” Arn pressed.
Ana Maria shrugged. “Just a feeling. Enough that I found myself checking to make sure I still had your little gun. I shouldn’t have even said anything.”
“After the night the guy grabbed you”—Arn rubbed his cheek that was still sore from getting cut—“everything’s important. Did you see anyone?”
“I was too busy trying to get a scoop on Johnny White’s death. But every now and again I’d … just feel something. I know that’s silly.”
Arn didn’t think it was silly. His first partner in Denver had been a woman. Young. Petite. Not much good in a bar fight, try though she might. What she did, though, was save both their lives when they responded to a silent burglar alarm at a residence one night. Arn had started into the house when Emily grabbed his arm. “Wait for a K-9,” she said.
Arn had pulled away, saying “I don’t need a dog to do my fighting,” and started into the house again when she jerked him nearly off his feet. “What the hell you doing?” he said. “Let go of me so we can search this place.”
“Someone’s inside,” Emily whispered. “And he’s waiting for us.”
Arn paused then. “How you know that?”
“I just got a … feeling. Do me that favor you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“But you do owe it to your wife to come home alive,” Emily said. “Just this once, throw that macho crap aside and wait for the dog.”
“I want you to stay home tonight,” Arn said.
“In your dreams,” Ana Maria said. “I’ve got to go on air with details of Johnny’s murder, and then later with an update on Butch Spangler’s homicide.” She finished her cookie. “Besides, I have my new guardian cop right outside the house watching over me.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” Danny said. “And I don’t like you going out on an empty stomach.”
Ana Maria smiled. “You know that guardian cop I mentioned? He gets off duty at eight o’clock, and he’s taking me to Texas Roadhouse for supper.”
“When are you going to get your car back from the body shop?” Danny squirmed in his seat. As small as he was, the rental car cramped him, and his knees jammed against the dash. “I don’t know if I can stand many more of your kind offers.”
“You could have stayed home and finished that wiring job while I brought Mickey D’s Happy Meals after I got done here.”
“And risk you getting my order wrong?” Danny finished the last of his French fries and crumpled the bag.
“Just toss it on the floor,” Arn said.
“Not a chance. This micro-limo is the next damn thing I’m going to have to clean for you.”
“Then quit complaining.”
“Speaking of complaining.” Danny drew his knees to his chest and flexed his toes to get circulation back. “I need help with the wiring.”
“I said I’d help sometime next week.”
“I meant professional help. That old frayed crap in your home is a hundred years old.”
Arn pulled to the curb across from Gaylord’s old house and killed the lights. “Then I guess I’ll have to hire a professional.”
“That would cost you a year’s wages,” Danny said, “as much wire that needs to be pulled and replaced.”
Hunting the Five Point Killer Page 22
