Hunting the Five Point Killer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Don’t you and Erv have wire to pull?”

  “I gave Erv the day off,” Danny said.

  “How can you give someone the day off who doesn’t work?” Arn asked.

  “I figured it’d help his self-esteem,” Danny answered, “if he thought he had a regular job.”

  “And we’re all about building self-esteem around here,” Arn said.

  Danny dropped into a chair beside him. “Now what were you two fighting about?”

  “We weren’t fighting,” Ana Maria said. “We were … discussing a gentlemen’s agreement we had.”

  “Well, there’s your problem: Only one of you is a gentleman.”

  “I appreciate that.” Arn smiled.

  “I wasn’t talking about you,” Danny said.

  Arn leaned back and pinched his nose. His headache was getting worse, and it wouldn’t subside until he got some things straight in his mind.

  “I’ve seen that look before.” Ana Maria sat on an empty drywall bucket and rested her arms on the door-turned-table. “Something’s not right.”

  “I’ve read and reread Dr. Dawes’ suicide note in my mind. Something doesn’t fit.”

  When Arn was a small boy, his mother had bought him a jigsaw puzzle at a garage sale. “Something’s not right, Mom,” he said when he emptied the box out onto the floor to put it together. His mother hadn’t believed him even as he began linking pieces. There were some pieces missing, he discovered after two days putting the puzzle together, and a couple pieces from another puzzle that had wound up in the branding scene. He’d take those pieces and turned them over, but they never quite matched up. That’s how he felt putting the pieces of this jigsaw puzzle together that didn’t quite fit, trying to match pieces that never were quite right.

  “Dawes described each of the Five Point killings, and Gaylord and Steve’s murders, with details only the killer would know.”

  “Then what’s the hang up,” Danny said. “You have a confession to all the murders. Go out and get a celebratory beer.”

  “I don’t feel like I can celebrate anything,” Arn said. “The note is … too neat. Dawes wrote piss poor. Like most doctors. Unless he had an alter ego who wrote neatly, or he took his time and penned that note so we could read it, someone else wrote it.”

  “Adelle,” Ana Maria said immediately.

  Arn nodded. “We thought of that, and Oblanski is getting a handwriting sample from her after he interviews her. But”—he slapped one fist into the other—“there’s just one piece of this puzzle that’s eluding me. And I won’t get a decent night’s sleep until I figure out what it is.”

  “You don’t seem to have been doing too bad,” Danny said, “as loud as your snoring’s been.”

  “You ought to sleep in the next room from him,” Ana Maria added.

  Arn’s cell phone rang and rescued him. But the feeling wasn’t for long. “Did you forget the time?” Georgia asked.

  “Oh crap.” Arn looked at his watch.

  “We can make this another night.”

  But Arn wasn’t so sure there ever would be another night. When Georgia had suggested they meet on neutral ground—like two combatants meeting on the field of honor—to discuss how he had tricked her into revealing the truth about Butch’s death, Arn had jumped at the opportunity for one more chance. Now he almost wished he hadn’t. “Something came up,” he told her. “I’m on my way over now.”

  He grabbed a sport coat and headed for the door. “Lock the door,” he called to Danny and Ana Maria. “And arm the security system.” And as he wiggled into the Clown Car to drive to Georgia’s, he had to work to spot the unmarked police car half a block away in the shadow of a building. And felt certain Frank wouldn’t spot it.

  Arn started down Pioneer Avenue, keeping his eyes glued to the rear-view mirror. Frank could be driving most anything, from his own beat-to-hell pickup to any number of customers’ cars. Oblanski’s men were hunting Frank hard—not to arrest him, since they had nothing to arrest him for—but because he was dangerous now that he thought Arn had worked up evidence linking him to Butch’s death. “He might go back to the reservation,” Arn had suggested.

  “He won’t leave Cheyenne.” Oblanski had assigned two more officers to find Frank. “If you’d have been in that interview room, you’d know how Frank hates you. Hopefully, we’ll find him before he finds you.”

  Arn had thought of how Frank had acted in Oblanski’s interview. “Perhaps he’s afraid of me for more reasons than Butch’s murder.”

  “Gaylord and Steve’s?”

  “And the Five Point killings. Just like we thought.”

  Arn had never run from a fight. Never feared anyone would best him. Never felt as if his place as the Alpha male at the head of the pack was threatened. But Frank Dull Knife was different. He’d posed as just another drunk the two times Arn had confronted him at his shop. But the man had stayed out of jail the last fifteen years, since before Butch’s death. His cunning had allowed him to conduct his burglaries with little chance of being caught. Frank would think through his attack. When it came.

  Arn pulled to the curb in front of a truck a block from Pieter’s house and doused his lights. He waited, his mind momentarily wandering back to his grandfather Will Anderson’s tales of men dueling in the Western fashion. Men killed one another at a hundred yards with rifles in this part of town. And face-to-face disputes with Bowie knives were common. Would Frank and he meet in such a fashion? Arn thought it couldn’t be any scarier than meeting Georgia tonight as he walked the steps to her front door.

  Georgia opened the garage door and stood with her arms crossed. She wore tan slacks and a cowl-necked sweater, with no makeup. As she stood eying Arn, he couldn’t figure out if she wanted romance or to chew him out.

  She motioned through Pieter’s garage, the yellow Karman Ghia sporting dirt and black specks on the rocker panels, tar remover and a rag on the garage floor beside it.

  Arn followed her through the garage into the house. When they reached the living room, she motioned to the couch, and she sat across the room in an overstuffed chair.

  “I’m waiting for some kind of explanation I can live with,” she said. “Like, ‘Georgia, I set you up because the truth had to come out.’ Or, ‘Georgia, Butch’s death has gone unsolved long enough.’ Some logical explanation.” She shook her head. “Even some philosophical explanation.”

  Arn stood and paced in front of the fireplace mantle. He wanted to occupy his time straightening Georgia’s high school cheerleading picture. Or dust off Pieter’s basketball photo showing him with the team and their sponsor’s shoes and soda they’d been awarded that year. He wanted to serve anything on a silver platter that would smooth things over between them. But he could only stand in front of her and think how he could explain himself so she would understand his good intentions. “I suspected Butch committed suicide—”

  “I know. You already explained that,” she said, defiant, and Arn was certain there would be no romance tonight.

  “I knew you had to protect Pieter,” he began. “You didn’t want him to go through life with the stigma that his father, the legendary detective Butch Spangler, killed himself because he couldn’t handle his wife’s affairs.”

  Georgia nodded.

  “But there were more reasons for Butch to feel enough anxiety to overdose on Xanax.”

  “Like what?”

  Arn had been rehearsing his explanation since Georgia said she wanted to meet after her interview at the police department. “He couldn’t live with himself after Steve was murdered. And later Gaylord—”

  “But they weren’t murdered. They died naturally. As naturally as a house fire and a suicidal hanging can be.”

  “There was nothing natural about their deaths. They were murdered.”

  Georgia waved the air to dismiss the notion. “An
a Maria’s television special. Even though she claims they were connected, she’s never gotten any new information. If they were homicides, she’d spill it all across the television screen.”

  “She didn’t,” Arn said, “because we agreed to keep the information under wraps. For now.”

  He sat back down, his thoughts coming to him easily now. “See, that’s another thing that bothered me. It didn’t take me too much digging to figure out Gaylord didn’t die an autoerotic death as the official reports claimed, but was hung from the rafters by his killer. And Steve’s house fire was no accident. If I could see it, surely an excellent investigator like Butch could.”

  “I talked with him at the time Steve and Gaylord died. He gave no indication they were homicides,” Georgia said.

  “And his reports never mentioned any suspicions of murder,” Arn continued. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “See, I think it weighed even heavier on Butch that his partner and supervisor were murdered than that Hannah was catting around. He knew they were murdered yet he couldn’t square it in his mind. And he couldn’t take it anymore.”

  Georgia’s eyes welled up and she avoided Arn’s look. “But what you did, implicating Pieter to trick me—”

  “Was necessary,” Arn said. “You didn’t volunteer anything when I asked you. Like Butch’s suicide note.”

  “What note?”

  “Georgia.” Arn stood and walked to the chair, looking down at her. “Butch was a very organized man. He would not have left something as open-ended as his death without leaving an explanation. He left a note for you, didn’t he?”

  “What makes you think I have any note?”

  “That hour between when you arrived at his house and when you called 911, you were cleaning up. Getting rid of anything that indicated a suicide. Did Bobby ask for the note?”

  Georgia looked up at Pieter’s photo on the mantle and dabbed her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “I’d stuffed it in my purse by the time he arrived. I told him Butch didn’t leave a note. He didn’t believe me either.”

  “May I see it?”

  “I don’t have—”

  “Please. This is the last thing between us.” Arn laid his hand on her shoulder. “Then maybe we can start over.”

  Georgia nodded and stood slowly, almost painfully, and disappeared down a hallway. When she reappeared, she had an envelope in her hand. “It’s one of the few things I kept that was my brother’s. And don’t you know, it’s the damned suicide note.”

  Arn carefully unfolded the note and laid it out on the coffee table while he put his glasses on. Of all the criminals I’ve pursued, Butch said, the Five Point Killer is the only natural predator I’ve hunted. He killed Gaylord and Steve, and has kept one step ahead of me. But I can smell him even in my sleep, he’s so close. I may be next.

  “Butch sounded fearful that he would be killed next.” Arn turned the paper over. “That had to have weighed heavily on him.”

  There was no apology to his son for finding him dead. Arn handed Georgia the note. “Even in death, he was abusive to Pieter.”

  Georgia held it to her chest. “Pieter won’t admit it, but finding his father shot like that has stayed with him all these years.” She tapped the note on her forearm. “This is the proof that Chief Oblanski would need in order to reopen Butch’s homicide and get it ruled a suicide.”

  Arn thought a moment. “I’m not sure what Oblanski’s going to do. But as far as I’m concerned, the Spanglers have suffered enough. Keep it and do whatever you want with it.”

  He buttoned his sport coat and grabbed his Stetson from the hat rack. As he started for the door, Georgia stopped him. “You’re just going to walk out? Without that second chance you talked about?”

  “I thought—”

  “You think too much.” She grabbed her jacket from the bent wood coat tree. “I worked up an appetite waiting for an explanation. By the way, what kept you tonight?”

  Arn debated telling her about Jefferson Dawes’ death, then decided it wouldn’t be anything she wouldn’t hear Ana Maria report in the morning anyway. When he finished, she asked, “And you think Adelle might have shot Dr. Dawes?”

  “Reducing it to who would benefit the most from it, Adelle would stand to make millions from Jefferson’s estate, even after taxes.”

  “But you don’t think she really did it?”

  Arn helped Georgia with her coat and she looked around the house a final time before leaving by the garage door. “She’s capable, but everything is just too pat. The suicide note explaining things about the Five Point cases, and about Steve and Gaylord’s murders, that only the killer would know. And written so neatly we are just about certain the doctor didn’t write it. Just too pat.”

  “Well, don’t look that gift horse—”

  “Understood. But there’s something else you may want to consider.” Arn told her about the threats Frank had made about intending to kill Arn when he saw him next. “I’m not so sure you want to be seen with me.”

  Georgia punched in the security code to arm Pieter’s system. “Look. I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster all day, worrying if the government will make Pieter repay the money. Not knowing if there’s anything we could be charged with, or if the state will revoke his builder’s license. The least of my worries is Frank Dull Knife.”

  “Then let’s grab a bit to eat.” Arn smiled.

  He helped Georgia into the car before he went around and shoehorned himself behind the wheel. As soon as he flicked on the headlights, he noticed a small note stuck under his wiper blade. His hand went to the gun in his back pocket as he looked frantically around, ready to shove Georgia over in the seat. As if there was room to do so.

  “What is it?”

  “The dome light,” Arn snapped. “Cover it with your hand.”

  Georgia covered the light long enough for Arn to open the door and grab the note. He slammed the door and tried scooting lower in the seat. “There’s a flashlight in the glove box.”

  Georgia handed him a small light and he held it low to the floorboard to read the note. “What is it?” Her voice faltered, expecting something bad. “What’s it say?”

  “It’s a warning. I think.” The note, scribbled on the back of an IHOP menu, told Arn to drive to his house. That Danny and Ana Maria needed him. ASAP. He showed Georgia the note as he fumbled for the ignition key.

  “What do they need? Who put this note here?”

  “I need to get home ASAP, it says.”

  “Danny or Ana Maria need you?”

  “If they wanted me, they would have called my cell,” he said as he pulled out of Pieter’s driveway. “As for who put it here, my best guess is the same person who wrote Dawes’ suicide note, by the neatness of the writing.”

  Fifty-Nine

  Tailing Anderson, I see why he’s survived in his dangerous world as long as he has. Just when I thought I’d see him come out the front door, he surprised me by coming out of his house by the back way. He stood at the corner of his house and looked around. Checking, slowly accessing the safety of making it to that miniature car he drives. But I’ve lived in my own dangerous world too long to be spotted. Not like the cop watching the house. If I hadn’t known they use those old Crown Vics for undercover work, I may not have spotted him parked in the shadows of that brick building down the block. I’ll have to talk with the cop. Later. In my own special language.

  For now, I’m having a hard time keeping distance from Anderson as he drives through town. He’s already pulled to the curb twice to see if he was followed. He’s pulled into someone’s driveway once. All three times, I had to turn off and parallel him on another street. I thought I’d lost him when I realized he was driving with no lights, using the emergency brake to stop rather than illuminate his taillights.

  Now that he went into the house, I have all the
time in the world to put a love note under his windshield wiper. And then I’ll drive to his house and visit with his people. And the cop.

  I tremble thinking what it will be like talking with Anderson and his peeps in the Hobby Shop, where Delbert Urban and I danced one night ten years ago. And that almost gave the cops enough to catch me. Almost. Damn, that old feeling’s back.

  Sixty

  Arn cut his headlights a block from his house, once again using the emergency brake to stop. Twice he’d pulled to the curb, and twice Georgia had refused to climb out. Arn reluctantly agreed to let her stay in the car with her finger poised over “911” on her cell phone. “I think you ought to wait for Oblanski and his men,” Georgia said.

  “I’m not so sure Danny and Ana Maria have much time, if I’m reading between the lines on that note.” On the way over, Arn had conjured up images of them. Terrible images. And he couldn’t help but think of the throat-slashed victims of ten years ago, or of Gaylord hanging or Steve burning up. Which way would Danny and Ana Maria die if he didn’t pull this off? “Cover the dome light until I get out.”

  “You’re not even sure they’re in any danger,” Georgia said.

  “I’m not sure they’re safe, either. Place the call now.”

  While Georgia dialed Oblanski’s personal cell number, Arn stripped off his sport coat and tossed it inside the open driver’s window. He left his Stetson on the back seat and grabbed his pistol from his pocket. “Keep your ears open for any gunfire. If Oblanski gets here before I come out, tell him not to shoot me. If Frank’s inside with them, there’ll be shooting enough to go around.”

  “Just wait for help—”

  “Sitting in that car over there”—Arn squinted in the darkness at an unmarked Crown Vic—“is a perfectly fine officer.”

  “If he’s so sharp, why didn’t he see anyone go into your house?” Georgia said, then answered, “Because there is no one in there holding Danny or Ana Maria hostage. This is ridiculous.”