Hunting the Five Point Killer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Georgia handed him an Army field jacket, and he was taken aback momentarily. “It was Butch’s,” she explained. “When I’m thinking about him a lot, I dig it out of his old footlocker beside Pieter’s bed and dust it off. You mind? It’s not very dressy.”

  Arn smiled as he helped Georgia put on the coat. She’d rolled the sleeves to where they didn’t engulf her hands, and she zippered it up against the cold.

  She grabbed a clutch purse and looked a final time before turning off the lights and locking the door. “Where are we going tonight?”

  Arn knew where McDonald’s was, and Albertsons to pick up groceries for Danny. He suggested the only other place he frequented: “How about Dr. Zhivago’s Russian and Mexican Exotic Grill?”

  Georgia scrunched up her nose. “That the place where the waiters go around in those silly Cossack uniforms?”

  “You know the place then?”

  “Know it!” Georgia laughed. “Last time I ate there I was living in the bathroom for the next two days. That ever happen to you?”

  “No,” Arn lied as he held the car door for her. “No. I don’t think it has.”

  She had to wiggle to fold herself into the Clown Car as Arn held her hand. “How about Poor Richards? That’s as exclusive as I know.”

  “I work exclusive,” Georgia said, hitting her head on the headliner. “Let’s do Old Chicago.”

  “Quite a ways to drive in this go-cart.”

  “Old Chicago the pizzeria. Not the town, silly. Get in and I’ll tell you where to go.”

  They drove past the Air Guard base just as a landing C-130 drowned out her voice, and Arn waited until it cut its engines. “There are a lot more places to eat than when we were kids.”

  “There are,” Georgia said, and finally got her seat belt fastened. “Those were the good old days when places had character. Like that place over by the steam plant Dad used to take us for lunch. Run by a couple of colored ladies.”

  “Twin Sisters,” Arn said.

  “That’s it.” Georgia smiled. “I loved that place. Down from that dive my dad warned me always to avoid.”

  “Tippin Inn,” Arn said as he waited for the light to change. “Dad used to tell tales about that, when it was called the Black and Tan—only people who felt safe were the blacks and Mexicans working the railroad. He used to get four and five calls a night on weekends for fights. Mostly someone didn’t pay for their sex. They ran hookers in the basement. Not officially, but they rented rooms by the hour. Clean sheets extra.”

  “I heard it said you could buy most anything you wanted,” Georgia said. “A nasty place.”

  Arn had worked around many such places in Denver, but they were spread out. When he worked the street, he and his partner would go from call to call putting out fires in just such places: a knifing here, a john stiffing a working girl there. Nasty places.

  “On second thought,” Georgia said, “maybe the good old days weren’t so good after all.”

  In Old Chicago, Georgia took the maitre’d aside and he led them to a corner booth. By habit, Arn sat with his back against the wall and looked over the packed restaurant. He was determined not to talk about his investigation, or the assault at Pieter’s house. But Georgia didn’t get that memo. “Pull your collar down.” She winced when she saw the rope burn encircling his neck. The couple in the adjacent booth stared and looked quickly away, as if Arn had attempted suicide and failed. “Pieter called this morning. He said you came a hair’s breadth from dying in that old house of his.”

  “So the ER doc said.

  “I told Pieter to get rid of those old rat traps he buys up … ” She laid her hand on Arn’s. “This ties in with Johnny’s murder, doesn’t it?”

  The waitress brought their sodas and Arn ordered a hand-tossed. He waited until the woman was out of earshot to continue. “The PD crime scene techs matched a shoe print in Johnny’s hospital room with an identical print found inside that old house of Gaylord’s.”

  “It’s good news, right?” Georgia sipped her soda through a straw. “Means the killer’s getting sloppy.”

  Arn rubbed his neck. It didn’t seem like good news to him. Especially after last night. “I wish he were getting careless. No, the killer left the print in Johnny’s room for the police to find. And he did the same thing at Gaylord’s. Purposely.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Oblanski said there was only that one shoe print inside Pieter’s front door, placed so the police could find it easy. As dirty and dusty as that place is, there should have been a trail going into the basement and coming back out. As it was, there were only smudges.”

  The waitress brought their pizza and Arn opened a napkin on his lap. Danny would be proud of him.

  “Maybe putting it there on purpose was the killer’s way of reaching out. Maybe he secretly wants to get caught.”

  “I don’t think so.” Arn’s eyes darted from table to booth to the front door. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the killer was sitting here eating pizza, watching him and Georgia.

  She laid her hand on his again. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “I would have canceled our dinner date, but we made it a couple days ago … ”

  “What are you rambling about?”

  Arn looked to the booth next to them, and a couple sitting at a table off to one side. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I don’t think it’s safe to be seen with me.”

  “Just stop it and tell me what you’re talking about.”

  The couple at the table stood abruptly, and Arn’s hand went to his pocket. He felt the handle of his gun just as they abruptly headed for the door, and sighed with relief when they were gone. He’d become jumpy for good reason these last few days, and he struggled to get his cop-sense back. He debated whether he should say more to Georgia. But she was with him in public, and whoever had tried killing him last night might be following him to finish the job. She deserved an explanation. “That shoe print in Johnny’s room—and at Pieter’s house—were the same impressions as the shoe prints found at the Five Point victims’ crime scenes.”

  Georgia’s reaction was delayed, but when she finally processed what Arn had just told her, she began shaking. Soda spilled over the side of her glass and she set it on the table. “Butch didn’t tell me the details of those murders. He wanted to shield me. But he told Pieter, and he filled me in.”

  She took a deep breath, calming herself. “I was cooking at Little America back then, and we were all scared to death. Even the busboys. We’d walk to the parking lot after work in threes and fours. Waited around until everyone was safely in their cars and down the road. But there hadn’t been a killing … like the brutal killings of those men … since, and I thought the murderer had moved on.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “But the killer is still in Cheyenne, isn’t he?”

  “Him or a copycat.”

  “If it’s the same one who killed those men ten years ago, why now?”

  Arn noticed the couple in the booth to one side of them leaned closer to hear more, and he lowered his voice. “I got a couple theories. One is that the killer got away with those murders a decade ago, and Johnny’s plea for the public’s help set him off. In some twisted way he may think that killing the messenger—Johnny, and the attempt on me last night—will stall the investigation.”

  Georgia shook Parmesan cheese on her pizza. “And the other theory?”

  Arn washed his pizza down with soda and glared at the couple next to them. They turned back around. “The other theory is far more disturbing. It involves some sick bastard getting his rocks off killing people a decade ago. And now he’s remembered what a thrill it was. And wants to relive that thrill.”

  “Ana Maria reported tonight that Dr. Dawes had been brought in on suspicion of Gaylord’s death.”

  Arn said noth
ing, hoping keeping his mouth busy with the pizza would deter Georgia. It didn’t.

  “Butch brought in Dr. Dawes on suspicion of murder when Gaylord was murdered,” Georgia said between bites. “The doctor clammed up back then. He’s not going to say anything now.”

  “Oblanski now has the pair of Nikes, and the positive match to Gaylord’s crime scene and the Five Point killings.” Arn polished off his slice of pizza and sat eying another. “But I’m not sure. Jefferson told Oblanski he’s never had a pair of Nikes.”

  “What kind of shoes does he run in?”

  Arn shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”

  “Find out. Runners are notorious for brand loyalty.”

  A man came in the door, his hand inside his coat pocket. Arn instinctively placed his own hand in his jacket until the man was seated at another part of the restaurant. “Now you’re going to tell me you’re a personal trainer as well as a chef.”

  “Cook.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I could have been, raising Pieter. He was fussy about his shoes, just like I’d wager Dr. Dawes is. Pieter went through Adidas and Nikes and New Balance until he found something that worked for a supinator like him … ” She paused mid-sentence and caught Arn’s blank stare. “I thought you were in sports in high school. Didn’t they teach you anything about equipment?”

  “Yeah. Don’t wear another’s boy’s jock strap.” Arn broke down and grabbed another slice. “They never had fancy shoes like that when I played. We all wore Red Keds sneakers.”

  Georgia pushed her plate away and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “People with high arches and tight Achilles tendons wear the outside of their shoes badly. New Balance was the only brand Pieter could wear without hurting his feet. And Dr. Dawes might be a supinator, too.”

  Arn recalled Jefferson stretching his tendons that day he stopped to talk with Adelle. He made a mental note to ask Adelle what brand of shoes Jefferson ran in.

  “Jefferson Dawes knew the layout of Gaylord’s house,” Arn said, connecting dots in his mind. “Gaylord asked him over there a couple weeks before his death, so he was familiar with the place. And he would have good reason to kill Gaylord, with Adelle in the picture.”

  “If you’re talking about that witch, you should keep looking for reasons. Would you risk murdering a cop for that?”

  “I see your point.”

  “But you really don’t think Dr. Dawes killed Gaylord. Or Johnny. Or attacked you, though by the looks of him Dr. Dawes is plenty strong enough?”

  Arn swirled soda around his glass, picking his words carefully. “It was just too convenient finding those shoes in Jefferson’s car after an anonymous tip. And too handy that he was caught on a hospital surveillance camera ten minutes before Johnny was murdered.” He held his hand up for a refill of their sodas. “And it’s easy enough to check out his story that he was doing the wild thing with a nurse from cardio rehab when I was attacked.” The waitress refilled their glasses. “My gut tells me I should be looking elsewhere.”

  Arn thought about asking Georgia about Oblanski. The last thing he wanted to do was taint the man’s reputation. Still, in the short time he’d been reacquainted with Georgia, he’d grown to trust her. “Did Butch ever suspect Oblanski of fooling around with Hannah?”

  Georgia laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was doing the whole department.” She lowered her voice as the couple in back stood to leave. “I can see Oblanski doing that just to get back at Butch. He had a way of belittling people. Including the low man on the investigations totem pole.” She smiled. “Just the opposite of his son. Pieter treated everyone kindly. He was generous, giving away most of the money he made working for that freight company after school when he was a kid. But Oblanski and Hannah—don’t discount it.”

  Arn steered their conversation away from his investigation to talking about Georgia. He learned she’d graduated at a small culinary school in Mitchell, South Dakota. She’d worked at several high-end steak houses in the region before returning to Cheyenne and eventually moving in with Pieter.

  They finished and paid the bill, and both did the ritual of getting into Arn’s tiny rental. On the drive back to her place, Arn learned she had been down the aisle twice but managed to flee at the eleventh hour both times. “‘I need to take care of my nephew’ was my official reason for breaking it off,” she said.

  “The unofficial reason?”

  Georgia laughed. “I’ve never met a man I feel comfortable waking up next to in the morning with the covers reeking of beer farts and sweat.”

  Arn elbowed her. “You’re still a romantic.”

  But she remembered how to kiss good night, Arn learned when he dropped her off. They sat in Pieter’s driveway with the Clown Car running, not enough room for them to get really serious, just to touch on the fringes as most high schoolers do. What started as a good night peck turned into something that quickly frosted the windows over. When they finally came up for air, Georgia took an exaggerated breath. “You lied to me.”

  “Lied?”

  “Lied,” she repeated. “You have been keeping in practice all these years.”

  Arn wanted to tell her the only thing he’d kissed since Cailee died was his department goodbye when he retired. But why spoil the magic? “You’ve kept up on current techniques yourself.”

  “Thank God for Cosmopolitan.” In the dark confines of the rental, lit only by green dash light, a twinkle shone in her eyes. “Want to come in for a drink?”

  “Isn’t that what Hedy Lamarr always said?”

  “No, that’s what I said.” She stroked his cheek, which was just now healing from the knife slice. “Pieter’s working late at his office every night this week, so we’ll have the house to ourselves.”

  “Any other time … ” Arn truly regretted declining. “I have to look someone up tonight.”

  Georgia grabbed her purse and opened the door. “Don’t promise to call if you’re not going to.”

  He held up his hand. “I promise.”

  He waited until she was safely inside the house and had given him a short wave goodbye before he pulled away. He’d wanted to tell her he needed to talk with Steve DeBoer’s pizza delivery kid. But even more pressing was the fact that he needed to lure in the car that had been following them since Old Chicago.

  Forty-Nine

  On the way to the truck stop, Arn called Ana Maria. “Don’t you know it’s illegal to talk on the phone and drive?” she said, and Arn heard laughter in the background.

  “You and Danny having a party there?”

  She laughed again. “Me and Danny and Erv. Did you know he used to do stand-up comedy?”

  “I’ll bet he’s a real riot. Get to another room.”

  “Let me grab my notes.” Arn heard shuffling on the other end, and the laughter he’d heard grew faint. “I can talk now,” Ana Maria said.

  “What did you find out about Jefferson?”

  “He was born a womanizer,” Ana Maria said, “and he’s apparently worked every day to perfect it. He was messing around on Adelle when he was married, and another woman at the same time.”

  “Any line on the first wife?”

  “Nothing. Like she vanished into thin air.”

  “Or under the ground. How about that nurse he was supposed to be hosing when I got attacked?”

  Pages rustled. “Jaine Barnes. According to neighbors, some tall good-looking guy—ostensibly Dr. Dawes—spent most of the night at her place. She moved out of her apartment this morning and checked in at the Plains Hotel under the name Jill Banister. Apparently she didn’t want anyone finding her and asking about her relationship with the good doctor.”

  “That’s why Oblanski’s guys couldn’t catch up with her,” Arn said. “But it’s not very original, using the same initials.”

  “What do you expect for a
contract nurse?”

  “A what?”

  “A traveling nurse,” Ana Maria answered. “They work at a facility for a specified time—six months is common—then it’s adios to another hospital. The good Dr. Dawes has been screwing traveling nurses the last couple years. That way he’s always got fresh babes. About the time he tires of them—”

  “Adios.”

  “You got it. But if he was with her, he couldn’t have been at Pieter’s basement hanging you.”

  Arn thought of that. Jefferson Dawes continued to lose his appeal as a suspect. Except for the missing wife. “I’ll keep trying to find out about the wife,” Ana Maria said. “Have you talked with the pizza delivery kid yet?”

  “Heading there now.”

  “Good luck,” she said. “I talked with him at the checkout for just a few minutes to verify his identity. He doesn’t appear to be the brightest bulb on a branchless family tree.”

  Arn hung up then, concentrating on the maroon Chevy van a block back that followed him into the Flying J Truck Stop. He parked the Clown Car between a bull hauler and a fuel tanker and darked out, watching for the van. Within moments, it motored slowly by, the driver’s head on a swivel looking for Arn’s car. It parked on the other side of the bull hauler and killed its lights.

  Arn began punching in Oblanski’s number, then hung up before it could connect. He still had the gun in his pocket, and he wasn’t an invalid yet. After he talked with the pizza kid, he’d figure out what to do about the van.

  He pulled in front of the glass-fronted convenience store and used the car door to extricate himself. He stretched, looking at two clerks through the window: one at the register, the other making sandwiches at a deli.

  Laun McGuire looked every bit his thirty years: thin build, with a premature widow’s peak sticking through his dark hair. He operated the cash register in no apparent hurry as impatient customers stood waiting in a long line.