Hunting the VA Slayer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “You know that were,” Helen said. She took a neckerchief from around her hat and dabbed the sweat from her forehead.

  “And they were officers.”

  Helen set her hat down and looked at Arn. “Are you trying to tell me there was a connection?”

  Arn nodded. “I’m thinking there must be something in their war service that is common to them.”

  “But both served in Vietnam, though at different times and different places.” She held up her hand. “I know you’re thinking there may be some connection such as a run-in with another soldier who’s decided to take revenge after all these years. But Frank was an Army Captain. Military intelligence stationed in Saigon, and Steve was a Marine Lieutenant in charge of an artillery battery at Con Thien. A thousand kilometers apart.”

  When Arn said nothing, she leaned closer and asked, “you have learned something that shows their deaths are connected?”

  “I’m just not sure,” Arn said. “After looked at photographs of both death scenes, I saw some… commonalities between the two.”

  “Such as?”

  “Both Frank and Steve died in VA restrooms. Both appeared natural, but both had some discoloration on the sides of their necks that no one can explain. I’ll know more when I talk to the ME here tomorrow.” He refilled their glasses and put the cold, damp goblet against his temple to stem a rising headache as he tried wrapping his brain around what he’d seen in the photos.

  About what he didn’t see that had caused him to lose sleep last night. “How about when they returned from Vietnam—did they have any run-ins with anyone you can recall? Anybody here in Cheyenne?”

  Helen stood and walked to a sunflower at the edge of the tree shade and plucked a weed. “Frank worked as an oil field representative after the war. Never had a lick of trouble with anyone.”

  “And Steve?”

  She twirled the weed in her hand for a moment before dropping it into an apron pocket. “When Steve rotated back to the states, he went to the University of Wyoming under the GI Bill. He mentioned a time or two that he got into some heated arguments with the quarterback of the football team—Steve was an offensive end for UW. He said the man—Julie Lang—was arrogant and a bully, but he never mentioned running into the man after graduation.” She chuckled. “As big as Steve was, I doubt most men could take him on.” She brushed away a pine needle stuck to the side of her glass. “There just was nothing in our family history I could think of to connect them.” She brought the glass to her lips when she set it onto the table, her hands shaking, ice clinking in the tumbler. “I hear something in your voice that tells me you found something odd when you went to Ft. Meade.”

  “It’s just a small thing. Nothing, I’m sure. I’m certain if I picked up on it the medical examiner did as well— .”

  “What did you find, Arnold?”

  Like Arn’s mother, Helen always called him by his Christian name when she was losing her patience. “Both Steve and Frank had slight—almost imperceptible—bruising on the sides of their necks,” he said, indicating the area between the neck and the trapezius muscle.

  Helen let out a long sign and slumped back in her chair. “I didn’t see Steve’s photos, but the police investigator showed me Frank’s pictures when I asked to see them…” She looked away for a moment. When she turned back, her eyes were as wet as the side of Arn’s lemonade glass and she brushed her hand across her cheek. “Frank had a little bruise on his neck where he had hit the sink when he collapsed. I thought it likely that he would sustain such a bruise.”

  “But Steve didn’t fall anywhere,” Arn said. “He simply died… sitting on the commode. And he had a bruise identical to the one on Frank’s neck.”

  “What could have possibly made it then,” Helen said, “if not from someone else?”

  “I don’t know,” Arn said, but he did know. Or at least, he suspected. The bruises were consistent with those made from a brachial stun, a blow police were just beginning to be taught as Arn was retiring from law enforcement. The thought of a lawman who would kill both men repulsed and frightened him. Whoever made the bruise had to know that it would not kill either man, especially someone as big as Steve. They had to have been killed another way. But how?

  7

  “THAT’S A MIGHTY OUTLANDISH CONCLUSION,” Danny said. He wore a flowered apron he had found in a dumpster down by the railroad tracks. He stirred sauce on the stove as he had for the last half-hour. “I’m no great fan of cops myself, but even I know they don’t go around killing people unnecessarily.”

  Arn donned his reading glasses and read the side of the tea box. There didn’t seem to be any special ingredient that he needed. He was, after all, as regular as the railroad. Most of the time. “I’m not happy thinking that way myself,” he told Danny. “I’m clutching at straws I suppose, trying to figure out who besides police would know such a technique.”

  Arn pushed the box of tea away before walking to the stove and sniffing Danny’s spaghetti sauce. He leaned over Danny’s shoulder when the old Indian handed Arn a soup spoon. “You’re as bad as a kid. Taste a sample, then quit bugging me.”

  Arn dipped the spoon in and came away with a small portion of the sauce. He let it roll sloooowly down his throat, wondering just when Danny was going to patent his recipe. “I just don’t know where else to look.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that those bruises you described just might be a coincidence?”

  Arn sat at the table and cradled the cup of tea, which was becoming cooler the longer he put off drinking it. “I don’t believe in coincidences. Especially where deaths occur. No, there is something I’m missing. I thought there might be a connection with their military service, but they were in different branches. Different parts of Vietnam. Different jobs during the war.”

  The combination of the front door alarm beeped and Arn heard Ana Maria enter. “Wipe your feet!” Danny yelled and put another paper plate on the table.

  Ana Maria walked into the kitchen and dropped a folder in the middle of the table. “You’ll never guess what I found out in my research this afternoon.”

  “Oh, gosh,” Danny said before Ana Maria could explain. “I can hardly wait. But, we will have to wait. I didn’t concoct the perfect spaghetti and garlic bread only to eat it cold.”

  “But—.”

  “But nothing,” the old man said. “It’ll keep. Unlike supper. Sit And eat. If you’re really good, I made a chocolate mousse for dessert.”

  —

  They brought their desert into the parlor of what used to be Arn’s mother’s sewing room, where she would sit for hours. Somewhere, Arn had a pair of mittens she had knitted for him. He’d been embarrassed to go out the door on his way to high school winters wearing the pink mittens with so much room for cold to enter they did Arn little good. He’d watched her darn socks in this room, using a wooden egg to make sure the repairs were just right. Only because Arn’s father—even though he was a full-time policeman—drank up so much of the family budget they could not afford new socks every time Arn got a hole.

  “I’ll grab coffee,” Danny said and went to the kitchen.

  “Ok,” Arn said, “let’s hear what you’re so excited about.”

  Ana Maria unfolded another TV tray and opened her folder on top of it. “I’ve been researching VA centers in Wyoming and South Dakota. Know what I found?”

  “A lot of sick vets.”

  “That, too. But I found eight deaths—including Frank’s and Steve Urchek’s—in the past two years at veteran’s hospitals.”

  Arn took the smallest spoonful of his mousse and rolled it around his tongue. “Don’t you think it’s possible they died because they were at the VA? I’d bet that if you researched deaths in civilian hospitals, you’d find the same thing. After all, more people die in hospitals than anywhere else.”

  Danny came back
into the room. He had two cups of coffee for himself and Ana Maria, and handed Arn a cup. “What’s this?” Arn said as he crunched up his nose.

  “It’s some of that green tea you bought.”

  “Well, who said I was ready to start drinking it?”

  “Excuse me for exercising my critical thinking skills,” Danny said. “I just figured—since you brought home a new box—that you’d be wanting to try some.”

  “I was going to… ease into it. Wean myself off coffee.”

  Danny shook his head. “At your age, you might be too easing. A man your age gets almighty irregular.”

  “Can we just talk about regularity and bowel movements another time,” Ana Maria said. “I’m trying to tell you about what I found.”

  “I know what you found,” Arn said. “Sick people. You already said that. And we already concluded they die in hospitals all the time.”

  “They do,” Ana Maria said, “But most folks die in their beds. Or on operating tables. All these I found have died in restrooms or unused offices at the VA centers. One died in a part of the hospital that was under construction. With no one there to witness any of the deaths.”

  Arn picked up the internet readouts and the replies Ana Maria had received, all cross referenced for accuracy. Each veteran that died of apparent natural causes had the same discoloration on the side of their necks. Ana Maria had highlighted each bruise with a yellow Sharpie. Arn hadn’t told her about the bruising on the victims—she uncovered that on her own. He handed the empty folder back to her. “Have you inquired outside Wyoming or South Dakota?”

  ” I have not,” she answered. “I thought since we… you… were looking into Steve and Frank’s deaths that I’d contact hospitals just in those states.”

  Arn scanned Ana Maria’s results more closely. All eight victims—including Steve and Frank—had been found by others stumbling onto the victims. And each—the investigators noted—had odd bruising on their necks.

  “What do you think?” Ana Maria said. “They connected or not?”

  Suddenly, the chocolate mousse Danny spent so much time making didn’t taste so good, replaced by a bitterness in his mouth by what he suddenly realized—all the deaths may be connected. “I wasn’t one-hundred percent convinced Frank and Steve’s deaths were related.” He handed Ana Maria the folder. “Now I’m not so sure. Now I think I’d better talk with Sgt. Wagner at the VA. Right after I talk with Chief Oblanski again.”

  8

  ARN WAITED OUTSIDE THE TINY VA Police office until Sgt. Wagner arrived. A towering former Marine Gunnery Sergeant with close-cropped hair he was—like many security people here at the VA—retired military who had served combat tours in Iraq, first as a platoon leader, then a stint in G2—Intelligence. Somewhere in his three tours, he had picked up a nasty-looking scar that ran down one cheek that he proudly displayed, like German soldiers picking up scars from duels with matched rapiers. “My secretary said some private investigator wanted to talk with me,” Wagner said when he had come around the corner and saw Arn leaning against the wall beside his office.

  Arn took his laptop case from his shoulder and fished into his pocket, handing Wagner a business card. have olds—will travel was superimposed over a photo of Arn’s old 442. Wagner smiled and pocketed the card.

  “I know it’s cheesy,” Arn said. “It was something my… roommate came up with to generate business.”

  “More like drive business away,” Wagner said. “What ’cha need?”

  “A veteran’s widow asked me to look into the death of her husband. Can we talk?”

  Wagner looked sideways at Arn. “A death here at the VA?”

  Arn nodded.

  “All right,” Wagner said, “but my office is a bit stuffy. Let’s talk in the courtyard.” Arn followed Wagner outside and to a picnic table next to a planter of blooming flowers. He took his portable from the belt holder and placed it on the table. “Now which death is it, because if it’s that overdose that came in two night ago—.”

  “It’s not.” Arn took out his notebook and flipped pages. “I’m talking about Frank Mosby’s death.”

  “Frank Mosby… Frank Mos… sure, that old Army Captain who took a Double Gainer against the sink in the crapper last week. But what is there to look into—the man died of a heart attack.”

  “I looked at another veteran who died at Ft. Meade—.”

  “What’s that got to do with the facility here?”

  Arn explained that Steve Urchek had visited the VA Center in Ft. Meade for a routine blood draw—like Frank had—and had went down of an apparent heart. Like Frank. “Both men had similar bruising on their necks,” Arn indicated the area where the photos showed the discoloration.

  “Except that they were both family I see no connection,” Wagner said as he shook out a Virginia Slim. He lit it with a Zippo bearing the Marine 1st Division insignia on the side. “Heart attacks are common with duffers their age.”

  Arn took out his laptop and inserted the disc he had pirated from the VA in Ft. Meade. He opened the file and turned it so Wagner could see it. “This is the crime scene photos of Steve Urchek in Ft. Meade.”

  “How’d you get this?”

  “The crime scene fairy,” Arn said. “The point is, it looks suspiciously like Frank Mosby’s crime scene.”

  “You are acting like these two deaths were anything but heart attacks. That’s just nonsense.”

  “Indulge me,” Arn said. “Look right here,” he said and pointed to the bruising on Steve’s neck and compared it to the side-by-side image Ana Maria had made for him. “I think it might be from a brachial stun.” Before talking with Wagner, Arn had researched the technique taught by police agencies around the country, but Arn was unfamiliar if it the VA police learned it. “I talked with Chief Oblanski… the cops here are taught it as are the deputies.”

  Wagner’s hand went instinctively to his neck. “We practice that here in custody and control. It damn sure isn’t pleasant, but it never killed anyone.”

  “Perhaps I could visit with the instructor,” Arn said. “Get a better insight into it.”

  Wagner lit another cigarette on the one in his mouth and dropped the snipe onto the ground. “We have no permanent instructor. We’re only twelve officers, but we take updates from a traveling teacher.”

  “When might he be here?”

  Wagner took his phone out of his pocket and ran his fingers down his scheduling app. “He’s at the Sioux Falls VA these next two days.” He pocketed his phone. “Winger Hays is the guy. He’ll be here Thursday to put on a refresher.”

  “Winger?”

  “Steven Hays. He got the nickname Winger in Iraq when he shot a dozen times at an intruder who breached the security fence and only nicked the guy in the arm. Winged him.”

  Arn flipped a page in his notebook and took out his pen. “What do you know about the Righteous Sword of the Lord? Guess they claim to be some religious zealots.”

  Wagner snubbed out his cigarette and took a can of Copenhagen from his hip pocket. “Think they’re connected with your friend’s death?”

  Arn shook his head. “Just curious. They were protesting at Ft. Meade when a friend and I were there.”

  “Where to start,” Wagner said as he wiped excess snuff off on the leg of his uniform trousers. “They’re just a bunch of idiots that sit around smoking dope in their compound outside Windsor, Colorado. They come out now and again to protest. We’ve caught some slinking in here trying to recruit for their… cause.”

  “Compound? So they are some kind of religious sect?”

  Wagner chuckled. “They have tax exempt status. Like churches. But they damn sure ain’t any church, though to a man—and woman—they are every bit the zealot of any fringe religious groups.”

  “At Ft. Meade, they specifically asked if I was a veteran.”

 
Wagner nodded and spat a string of tobacco that smacked against a rock like a mini-rifle shot. “Their organizational statement says they stand against any American military involvement. Anywhere. They advocate for the disbanding of all armed forces in our country.”

  “They ever protest here?”

  Wagner’s radio crackled and he turned his head to answer it. “Get somebody else to help,” he said into his radio and set it back down. “Some dude in the ER keeps taking out his catheter, and they want help. Last thing I want is to hold some fella’s tally whacker while a nurse shoves it back in.

  “But to answer your question, they protested here a couple years ago. We called the Cheyenne PD to help and we stung them pretty good. Hauled nine protestors to the hoosegow, including their leader, Jonah Barb. Calls himself a Colonel. Good news is they haven’t been back since, though we’ve gotten word the RSL is planning a protest here.”

  “Then I’d watch your back,” Arn said. “That bunch we ran into in South Dakota looked ready to drag us from the car and do bad things.”

  Wagner laughed. “If those boobs we arrested couple years ago are any indication, they’ll be too stoned to be much more than an annoyance or block traffic.”

  Arn handed a copy of Ana Maria’s spreadsheet to Sgt. Wagner. “Here are the dates of six more deaths in the last two years at VA centers in the region. Could you check to see if the RSL protested at these facilities these dates?”