Hunting the Five Point Killer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “And if he can?”

  “Then she was lying to me,” Arn said. “And she might have helped Jefferson hang Gaylord.”

  The line went quiet for a moment while Oblanski jotted things down. “Can you think of anything else?”

  “Lean on him about his first wife,” Arn said. “I checked with customs and they have no record of her ever leaving the country. If Jefferson killed Johnny—and Gaylord, ten years ago—he’d be a good contender for the Five Point slayings.”

  “What’s that got to do with Jefferson’s first wife?”

  “If she found out about him, she might have been afraid she’d be next and fled Cheyenne.”

  “Okay. But you’re sure you don’t want to sit in on his interrogation?”

  “I got other things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Remember, I was hired to solve Butch’s murder.”

  Frank sat looking over reading glasses perched on his nose, bulbous with burst blood vessels from too many sessions with Jim Beam. When Arn walked through the shop door, Frank squinted at his computer screen. He wrote down parts numbers that Arn easily read upside down. Frank looked up and tossed his glasses on the desk. “Look what the cat drug in.”

  Arn nodded to the screen. “Hate to interrupt when you’re dick-deep in some porno site.”

  Frank’s face turned red. “I need a starter for an MG Midget. Wish people would just go to Import Motors.” He leaned back in his chair, the chain of his biker wallet slapping the arm of the chair in time with his nervous foot. “What the hell you want now?”

  “The truth.”

  “What planet are you living on?” Frank taunted. “Didn’t you ever hear you’ll never get the truth from a career criminal? Which I was”—he grinned—“before I got religion. These days, I’m a legit businessman. Now what do you want?”

  “Hannah suspected that you killed Butch, didn’t she?”

  “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “She threatened to go to the police that night she chased you out of her house.”

  “She never chased me.”

  “Emma Barnes said otherwise.”

  “That old prune who lived next door—”

  “Can remember the color of your shirt and the shine of your boots that night.” Arn hung his Stetson on the elk antler coat rack. “Did Hannah threaten to go to the law because you killed Butch? Or because she could put you away on that burglary charge?”

  Frank’s lip quivered and Arn pressed his point. “The Highway Patrol ruled the cause of Hannah’s fatal accident was brake failure. You work on her brakes?”

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” Frank came off his chair, but Arn shoved him back down. Pain shot up his shoulders from the strain, but he wasn’t going to let Frank know it. “Hannah could put you away. That’s why you rigged the accident.”

  “I wasn’t going back to the joint,” Frank said, more in a whisper, as he slumped in his chair.

  “Not with Butch dead, you weren’t.”

  Frank reached into his shirt pocket and grabbed a pack of Marlboros. His hand shook as he brought the cigarette to the shaky match. “You know Butch dismissed the burglary charge.”

  “He could have refiled it any time, and you’d be back looking at a habitual criminal conviction.”

  Frank lit his smoke and looked around for an ashtray. He dropped his match in the same Skippy jar he’d drank whisky out of the last time Arn was here. “I didn’t see Butch the night he was murdered.”

  “So you claimed. Some horse shit about having to get up early for a carburetor job. Except you weren’t at your shop the next morning.”

  “I told you before I hooked up with another babe that night after Hannah started rubbing all over Ned Oblanski. I thought, what the hell, if she can come onto another guy, I can go home with another woman. We left the bar ’cause the little lady wanted some quality time at her house. Outside Wellington, Colorado. Exactly fifty miles from my shop.”

  “Why should I believe you now that you’ve had ten years to come up with some cockamamie alibi like that? Maybe because you want me and Oblanski’s department off your case for Butch’s murder.”

  “Enough!” Frank flicked his cigarette onto the floor and crushed it with his boot. “Sure I committed that burglary, just like Butch said. But he planted evidence, he wanted me so badly. If he’d done a little more digging, he’d have had me dead to rights.” Frank shook out another cigarette and crumpled the empty package. “Hannah wouldn’t have dared testify against me. She was with me the night I burgled that home.”

  “Hannah?” For the second time, Frank’s statements had caught Arn flat-footed.

  “You didn’t know, big city detective,” Frank grinned. “Hannah went through that window like she was born to break and enter. And we cleaned the house out. And a few homes the next week.” Frank leaned in, smiling, remembering. “And you know why she loved it? She was an adrenaline junky. She fed off the excitement of getting caught. And she repaid me in bed every night.”

  “And Butch found out?”

  Frank blew smoke rings toward his dirty ceiling. “When Butch brought me in for the burglary, he showed me a Rolex he claimed was stolen and said he found it in my car. I called bullshit on that. I never stole anything fancy I couldn’t fence right off. So I dropped the bombshell about Hannah helping me.”

  “Because you knew he had you dead to rights?”

  “Because he planted the Rolex, and I knew I couldn’t get out of it. I told him Hannah and I were a team. If I went down, I’d drag her right down with me. He had no choice but to drop charges.”

  Arn regained his thoughts and grabbed his pocket notebook and pen. “If you weren’t even in town when Butch was murdered, what’s the name of the woman you went home from the bar with?”

  “I can’t do that. She’s still married. I don’t want to cause her any grief.”

  “And just what did you and Hannah argue about that night Emma Barnes saw her chase you out of the house?”

  Frank shrugged. “After Butch was dead, there just was never a spark there. No intrigue any more. I needed some new babe. Know what I mean?”

  Arn didn’t. After eighteen faithful years with the same women, the spark had never left until the day she died. And it was still there for Arn.

  “Hannah was on me constantly to stop by after Butch was murdered. I put it off as long as I could. The trips to Wellington took up a lot of my time. I told her I just felt odd screwing her in the same house her old man died in. I told her we needed to split. When I left the house, she chased me out onto the yard. Threatened to go to the law about our burglaries. But I knew it was a bluff. She’d never risk being charged along with me.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “A former cop, and you’ve never heard of the statute of limitations? I can’t be charged for those burglaries. It’s too long ago.”

  Frank leaned forward and blew smoke in Arn’s direction. “And I didn’t have to kill Hannah or Butch. He sure as hell wasn’t going to put his old lady away.” He laughed. “What would people think?” He motioned to the door. “Now I got MG parts to order, so get the hell out.”

  Arn reached out with his pen and tapped a large welt on the back of Frank’s hand. The man jerked his hand back and covered it with the other. “Where’d you get your knuckles scraped up?” Arn asked.

  Frank held up his hand. “This? Work related.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t from hitting some old Indian alongside the head over on 5th Street last night?”

  “Could be.” Frank grinned. “Or it could’ve happened when I went to Wellington yesterday while a certain lady’s husband was away. And the wrench slipped off while I was working on her Buick.”

  Forty-Eight

  Arn was seated in the lobby of the police department ta
lking with the community service officer when Jefferson Dawes burst through the door. A thin, balding man in a herringbone suit followed on his heels as they headed for the exit doors. Jefferson stopped in front of Arn, jaw muscles clenching and unclenching. He started to speak, but the little man pushed Jefferson out the door onto the street.

  Oblanski was warm on their heels. He ran through the lobby and stood looking out the door. Jefferson got into the passenger side of a Suburban parked at the curb, and it kicked up loose asphalt driving away. Oblanski waited until a white Crown Vic pulled out behind them before he turned and sat on the visitors’ couch beside Arn. “Did Dr. Dawes say anything to you just now?” he asked.

  “He wanted to,” Arn answered, “but the little guy with him wouldn’t let him.”

  “That’s his attorney from Ft. Collins, and he didn’t want Jeff to say anything in the interview, either. But Dr. Dawes doesn’t listen to counsel worth a damn.”

  Oblanski turned to the community service officer. “Could you go upstairs and see if Michelle has any messages for me?”

  When the officer left, Oblanski scooted closer and lowered his voice. “Dr. Dawes denied ever owning a pair of Nikes, even though we seized that pair in his Escalade. And when I asked if he went into Gaylord’s house the night he was hung, his attorney tried to keep him quiet. It didn’t work. I thought Dawes was going to throw a punch at me when he denied it. He claimed he was at the Denver Downtown Marriott in bed with an anesthesiologist the night Butch was murdered, and that’s why he told Adelle he was tied up that night. He said he doesn’t remember her name.”

  “Did he admit to being in Gaylord’s old house last night?”

  “He was pumping some nurse from Cardiac Rehab. We’re running her down now.”

  “And Johnny?”

  Oblanski looked to the double doors like he expected Jefferson to come stomping back in. “I showed him the hospital tapes. We’d done a height comparison between him and Johnny’s killer in the video, and knew he had to be between six feet and six feet two. Dawes is six feet one inch. He says he was on the floor looking in on a patient. We verified he saw a man from Wheatland, but there’s no way to know if he stayed on the floor after that.”

  “Did he ever clam up?”

  Oblanski smiled. “When I started asking him about his wife that he went to court to declare dead, he went mute. I told him we checked with Customs and the Marshals, and she never left the country like he claimed. That got him shaking bad enough I thought he’d piss his pants … you saw how angry he was when he came through here. Anyway, his attorney wouldn’t let him answer that, and said they were leaving unless we were prepared to make an arrest.”

  “Which you’re not.”

  “Not yet. I put one of my guys following him in case he goes to the hospital to talk with his alibi. But the girlfriend’s off work today. We got an unmarked surveilling at her place, and I’ve applied for a phone tap. If the good doctor makes contact with her, we’ll know when and what they talk about.”

  Oblanski kept quiet while a man went to the window of the records division to pick up a copy of an accident report. When he left, Oblanski asked how Arn’s interview with Frank had gone. Arn told him that Frank claimed Hannah was his accomplice in numerous residential burglaries. “But it’s impossible to check his story, with Hannah long dead.”

  “I hate to admit it, but it does make some sense that Butch kept it to himself,” Oblanski said. “He wouldn’t want anyone knowing the great Butch Spangler’s wife was a common criminal.”

  “Unless she confided in someone else.” Arn looked sideways at Oblanski.

  The chief turned red. “I told you before, I danced with her that one night. We parked and made out until I found out she was Butch’s wife. When I dropped her off down the block from her house that was the last I saw of her.”

  “I had to ask,” Arn said. He pulled his collar away from his neck, which was scabbing up from the deep rope burn. The prescription was still in his pocket, and he needed to fill it.

  “So, we’re no further ahead,” Oblanski said. “We’re up against a stout brick wall. We got two solid suspects, Dr. Dawes and Frank Dull Knife. Either one could be our guy.”

  “You don’t think they’re all connected?”

  “I’m leaning toward your theory: if we find the killer of any of the officers, we’ll clear all three cases. And the Five Point cases as well. But just what the hell do I tell the public tonight when I go on TV with Ana Maria?”

  Arn thought for a moment before answering. “You’re asking my advice? Last time I gave it, Johnny got murdered.”

  “Like you pointed out, it was no one’s fault. Including yours.”

  Arn wanted to thank Oblanski, but for some reason, the words never materialized. “Tell the audience that Johnny’s murder shows just how close I am to solving Butch’s death, and his connection to the Five Point murders.”

  “You mean we’re close?”

  “No. I meant me.”

  Oblanski shook his head. “I can’t put a civilian in danger.”

  When Arn started to object, Oblanski held up his hand. “You were nearly killed last night. Pieter can say what he will about the homeless infesting that old house of his, but your attack was not the work of some bum wanting you dead because you uncovered his party house. If I come out and proclaim that you’re a half step away from connecting everything—”

  “But I am—”

  “Your life won’t be worth a nickel.”

  Arn stood and walked to the door. The sun set early this time of year, and his scarred neck was reflected back at him as he stared outside. “We need to force him out in the open. And I am close to connecting all these cases.”

  “Even Steve’s?”

  Arn nodded. “I read the report of Steve’s fire. He ordered pizza the day before it happened. I need to double check on times to make sure I got things straight in my mind. I got to interview the pizza delivery boy.”

  Oblanski threw up his hands. “Is that all, just find some pimply-faced geek who used to deliver pizza ten years ago?”

  Arn smiled. “Actually, Ana Maria found said geek. He’s a night manager at the Flying J Truck Stop.”

  “I give up,” Oblanski said. “Do what you need to do. Tonight with Ana Maria I’ll say you are close to solving them. But you watch your ass. The last thing I need right now is another unsolved murder.”

  Arn rushed home, late for his dinner date with Georgia. He was walking through the door and shaking off his boots when laughter erupted from the kitchen. Danny sat laughing with a man as emaciated as he was. The man nudged Danny and stood. He looked like a midget Abe Lincoln, with a long, dour face and a beard that rested halfway down his chest. He came to Danny’s shoulders. And Danny was small.

  “This is Erv,” Danny said.

  Erv wiped his hand on his tattered corduroy trousers and shook Arn’s hand. Like Danny’s, Erv’s hand was rough. Callused.

  “Erv’s that old friend I was telling you about.” Danny looked to the back door, and Erv put on a faded parka and disappeared outside. “We were going to talk about him, remember?”

  “Better be quick,” Arn said as he unbuttoned his shirt. “I got a dinner date.”

  Danny thrust his hand in his pockets, gathering his thoughts. “Erv needs a place to stay. He’s homeless.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “But he’s like me, he’s got no place.”

  “Danny, I hate to break this to you, but I’m not running an adult orphanage here. If Erv needs a place to crash, tell him to contact some of the churches.”

  “He can’t go to church.”

  “What do you mean, he can’t go?”

  “Erv’s a sinner,” Danny said solemnly.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “No, I mean he’s got something wrong up here.”
Danny tapped the side of his head. “He’s kind of titched. Not sharp like us. He thinks he’s such a big sinner he’ll burn up the moment he sets foot in a church.”

  “I find it hard to believe that a master electrician is an out-of-work electrician. He ought to be making six figures and living in a nice place.”

  “He did before he got titched.” Danny tapped his head again. “He had to give it up. He couldn’t go into churches for jobs. Now he goes from day job to day job.”

  “Well, he’s not staying here.”

  “This is his chance to get back on his feet, if only some benevolent soul—”

  “No.”

  “But Erv’s got phenomenal hearing,” Danny said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Erv can hear a pin drop in the middle of a hurricane.”

  “I’d care if we had hurricanes in Wyoming.” Arn checked his watch. “What’s that got to do with him staying here?” He started for the stairs with Danny at his heels.

  “Erv would have heard that person sneaking around the house the other night. And in light of recent events”—Danny rubbed the knot on the side of his head—“you might need someone to alert you if the guy comes back.”

  “We got a security system now.”

  “They can be overrode.”

  Arn stood with his hand on the new stair railing Danny had installed. “So you want me to let Erv stay because he’d make a good watchdog?”

  “And because he can rewire this place.”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Arn checked his watch again. “Put him in the room between me and Ana Maria. There’s no heat, but at least it’s out of the wind.” He bounded up the stairs. “Keep him away from the white wall. And Danny … Erv better be housebroke.”

  Georgia answered the door in a gray pantsuit, low pumps that brought her even with Arn’s shoulders, with a simple turquoise neckless resting on her chest. She’d formed her hair in a French roll and held it back with a bone hair tie. She’d swapped her everyday glasses for a pair of wire-rimmed ones, and she had a petite watch on her right wrist. She looked to Arn as if she were going to a job interview. Then he remembered she had no more experience dating than he had. “You look sensational,” he said, recalling that old Cary Grant line, leaving out “Dahling.”