Hunting the VA Slayer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Wagner looked at it but left it on the picnic table. “Surely you’re not actually thinking these idiots had anything to do with—.”

  “I’m not thinking anything,” Arn said. “I’m just tossing darts to see what sticks.” He picked the sheet up and held it out. “Look at the positive side—if anything you uncover about the RSL helps solve what’s been happening to those veterans, Ana Maria Villarreal will credit you with it on-air.”

  “Think so?”

  Arn nodded. “Might even include you in her special.”

  Wagner stood and slipped his portable radio into the belt holster. “Might take me a few days. There’s VA centers listed here in two states,” he argued to himself, but a broad smile had swept across his tanned face. Like he was imagining jumping a pay grade or two or even getting a promotion. “You really think she’d mention me?”

  “I can almost guarantee it,” Arn said and left before Wagner could change his mind.

  9

  “I’LL HAVE THE TWENTY-OUNCE PRIME rib,” Arn said and handed the waitress the menu.

  Ana Maria leaned closer. “Are you kidding me, a twenty-ounce steak? That’s like driving coffin nails into your body. How about a nice…” she studied the menu, “grilled chicken salad.”

  “Salad? I’m a carnivore.”

  “Then one of those senior meals—they’re smaller portions.”

  The waitress—a girl a third Arn’s age with a nose ring that would sink her in a pool in a heartbeat—put her hands on her thin hips as she waited for Ana Maria and Arn to finish arguing. “But I’m only twenty pounds heavier than when I graduated high school.”

  “But you’re carrying those twenty pounds differently, I’m sure.” She looked up at the waitress. “What do you think… he could stand to lose a few, right?”

  The waitress looked around nervously for an exit route, finally answering when she saw no way out of it. “He could lose… maybe just a couple pounds.”

  “See,” Arn said. “She said a couple pounds is all.”

  Ana Maria closed her menu and handed it to the waitress. “Medium prime rib and a dinner salad for me, and an eight-ounce rib eye for Man Mountain Mike here. And steamed Brussels sprouts on the side.”

  “You trying to starve me to death?” Arn asked after the waitress made a hasty retreat.

  “You’re the one that asked me to help you lose that old gut,” Ana Maria said. She squeezed fresh lemon into her water. “I’m just doing you a favor.”

  “Some favor. Eight ounces isn’t enough to feed a sparrow, and Brussels sprouts aren’t fit for human consumption. Besides, when I asked for help monitoring my diet, I threw it out there more as a conversation piece than a serious request.”

  Ana Maria had taken Arn literally, lining up a blood draw for the first phase, and a follow-up appointment with a physician next week when the results of the blood work were to be completed. All because he hinted at his regularity issues.

  Already he was literally feeling the effects of his new lifestyle Ana Maria had planned for him as he itched his arm under his shirt. After the blood draw, the nurse had slapped on a band aid and threw several layers of Kerlix over that to secure it.

  “Don’t pick at the Kerlix,” And Maria said. “It keeps the bandage on.”

  She set her glass down and dabbed at her mouth as Arn caught a young feller out of the corner of his eye checking out Ana Maria. But then, she often got looks from men, even though she was as socially-inept as Arn at times. “Let’s talk shop,” she said. “That’s why you invited me to dinner anyway.”

  Arn nodded.

  “I thought as much. Something’s bothering you.”

  Arn sipped the green tea she had ordered for him when he was away at the restroom washing up. As he took another sip, he scolded himself—this stuff is getting to taste good to me. I am losing my mind.” “What’s been bothering me is that Helen has to be right. Her women’s intuition agrees with my gut feeling… don’t even say anything.”

  Ana Maria smiled. “Go on.”

  “We both believe there has to be a connection between Steve and Frank’s deaths. And up until you came up with those other deaths at VA centers, I thought there was a family thing. That maybe someone hated both Frank and Steve for some… history they both had together.”

  “That was my first thought. So what’s bothering you so much?”

  “What’s bothering me is that I know we’re right. In my gut I know it. But I cannot come to grips with what it is. It’s like I developed some brain disease and cannot use my thirty-plus years as a lawman to realize just what I’m missing. I was up late last night racking my brain— .”

  “I heard you go downstairs a couple times in the middle of the night,” Ana Maria said when the waitress had set salads in front of them. “I think I also heard the fridge open both times and the ice cream was gone this morning.” She exaggerated a look at Arn’s belly. “Almost as if you were sabotaging your desire to lose some of that.”

  Arn took two bits of salad and pushed the rest away. “What am I missing? If there is some link—and I am not certain they all are connected—what is the common denominator with them?”

  Ana Maria leaned across the table and rested her hand on Arn’s arm. “The problem you have is that—when you were a homicide detective—you solved every one of your cases. And now you think there’s something wrong with you if you can’t solve these. Arn, it is not even your job to solve them. You’re supposed to be retired. So, retire.”

  Arn turned in his seat and looked the restaurant crowd over. “Does a career cop ever really retire? You know what I see when I look these people over—I see potential suspects in everything from shoplifting to assaults to things far worse. Even though there might not be a criminal in the bunch, I am still suspicious of people.”

  “Maybe those suspicious are unfounded with the VA deaths,” Ana Maria said. “When I researched those other unattended deaths, I was doing it on a whim. I had just wrapped up a story on the I80 traffic situation during this tourist season, and I had little else to do but sit in front of my ’puter and let my mind wander. I was just tossing it out there. I found nothing—nothing—to connect those deaths to Frank and Steve’s— .”

  “But the ones you found died unattended— .”

  “People die unattended every. Single. Day. Doesn’t mean I was on to something.” She shook her head. “What I did do was put in your head some notion that there’s a grand conspiracy to kill veterans at multiple facilities. Do me a favor. Please. Drop the notion that there was any connection between Frank and Steve and the other six and accept the fact that two old men happened to have heart attacks a couple months apart.”

  “Drop it?” Arn said. “You were the one got me started.”

  Ana Maris shook her head. “But this is getting a little . . . dangerous. If there is a killer out there, he—or she—might figure you’re getting close.” She laid her hand on his arm. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. Just drop it.”

  Could Arn drop it? After hard thinking, he concluded Ana Maria was right. It wasn’t his job to connect the dots on any of the VA deaths. Still, he always spoke for those that could no longer speak for themselves. “You were going to tell me about a special that DeAngelo approved today.”

  The waitress brought their entrees, and Arn stared at his plate even after she had left. “Look at that,” he motioned to the steak. “I’ll devour that in about two bites then call Domino’s Pizza for a delivery here.”

  “But you’ll walk away tonight a smaller man,” she said as she took her first bite of fatty prime rib. She set her fork on the edge of her plate and closed her eyes while she chewed slowly. “Ah… this has got to be the best prime rib I’ve ever eaten.” She speared another piece with her fork and stopped when she saw Arn staring at her plate. “You wanted to know what special DeAngelo authorized
I go ahead with?”

  “I’m more interested in how I’m going to have the strength to even crawl home after this sparse meal. But tell me about it while I drool over your prime rib.”

  And Maria took another loving bite and dug her reporter’s notebook from her purse. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin as she flipped pages. “DeAngelo gave me the go-ahead to do an investigative series on the Righteous Sword of the Lord. Look.” She turned the notebook so Arn could read her hen scratching. “I’ve been doing some serious study on the RSL. Even though they’re registered as a 501 (c) (3), they’re sure no religious or charitable group.” She picked up the notebook and turned it to the light.

  “Getting a little hard to read?” Arn chided. “Like your eyes are growing old. Maybe you need my glasses.”

  “Never mind me,” she said and laid the notebook on the table again. “The group was formed right after the First Gulf War by a man named Waylon Pike. He earned himself a Dishonorable Discharge from the Army for running prostitutes in Saigon.”

  “From what Frank Mosby told me right after he came back from ’Nam, the military looked the other way when it came to hookers and servicemen.”

  “Not when the servicemen invariably came up beaten and robbed. Even had a few soldiers MIA that were last seen with Pike’s whores.”

  “Vietnam was a long time ago,” Arn said. “How is it we’ve never heard about the RSL until recently?”

  “Because Pike just recently found religion, in a manner of speaking,” She took another bite of prime rib. “The religion of money, that is. General Nehemiah, as he calls himself now, found enough disgruntled servicemen from the Gulf conflicts to fill his ranks, though until recently they never numbered more than fifteen or twenty. Nehemiah squatted on public lands with his ragtag bunch of misfits—staying until the local law got fed up enough and put the run on them—the forests of Northern California one year. The Sierra Nevada’s another. He even set his followers up at the Yellow Thunder Camp in the Black Hills after the American Indian Movement people were cleared out in the ’80s.”

  Ana Maria turned another page and squinted. “After coming back from Vietnam, he made anti-military noise wherever he could. He attracted other vets who—almost to a man—had been drummed out of the military for doing some questionable and illegal things.”

  “You mentioned General Nehemiah found money?”

  Ana Maria nodded. “Certain foreign government that were… in opposition to our country, started courting him. Governments willing to pay money just so that Pike—Nehemiah—could be a thorn in the side of the federal government.”

  “That’s ridiculous, “Arn said. “A few protestors storming VA centers isn’t going to alter the country’s actions with the military.”

  Ana Maria finished her prime rib and pushed her plate away. “That was soooo good. But back to Nehemiah… he could care less if the RSL has any effect—he’s hobnobbing with folks who will pay him to keep his hateful followers spun up and protesting. I found an article that claims that Nehemiah has been visiting Russia for the past eleven months. Before that, he was in Cuba. Hell, he’s only been seen in this country once in the past four years.”

  Arn eyed the porterhouse on the plate of the man in the table next to theirs. He turned back to Ana Maria before he did something foolish. “So Nehemiah is living the high life— .”

  “Off donations to the Righteous Sword of the Lord.”

  “I’m confused,” Arn said. “If he’s not running the show, who is?”

  “That lovely man that reeked of dope and BO we had the run-in at Ft. Meade—Jonah Barb. Colonel Jonah Barb. He’s running operations while General Nehemiah is away.”

  “You mentioned Nehemiah’s been in the country once in the last four years?”

  “He dropped in at the RSL compound in Colorado last summer. Seems like he gave Jonah hell for not staging enough protests. Ordered him to ramp up operations.” She shrugged. “Guess the RSL doesn’t rake in as much money unless they make a lot of nasty noise.”

  Arn eyed the Brussels sprouts and picked up his fork. Normally he wouldn’t even think about taking a bite of one. But with only an eight-ounce steak in his gullet… “I thought DeAngelo turned you down when you pitched the special? Thought he didn’t want to do anything with the RSL?”

  “He didn’t,” Ana Maria said, “until Jonah came into the studio yesterday. He threatened to sue DeAngelo, claiming I have been snooping around, asking too many embarrassing questions about the group.” She smiled. “DeAngelo bulled up. Told security to toss Jonah out on his ear and told him to keep a close watch on the evening news. He figured if Jonah Barb made that big a fuss, there must be something to the group worth exposing.”

  The waitress took their plates and replaced them with desert—a type of thick pudding sporting a dab of whipped crème on top. Arn eyed it suspiciously. “Isn’t this what they give to old farts in retirement homes to help them swallow their medicine.”

  “Call it practice for when you actually retire.”

  Arn dipped his spoon in the desert and tasted it. “Damn, this is pretty good. Makes up for the Brussels sprouts.” He wiped pudding off the corner of his mouth. “I better ask Oblanski to have his guys swing by the TV station now and again if that fool is threatening— .”

  “Don’t you dare,” Ana Maria said. Her face flushed hot through her swarthy complexion. Her Latino side coming through, Arn thought. “I need space to do my research, and having cops lingering by won’t help any.”

  Arn wanted to argue, but the waitress short circuited it. “Was the meal to your satisfaction?” she asked as Ana Maria grabbed the check.

  “That was the best prime rib I’ve ever had.”

  “We hired a new chef… no, a culinary maestro he calls himself. And it fits.”

  “I’d like to personally compliment him,” Ana Maria said.

  The waitress bowed slightly. “I will tell him a grateful diner wishes to see him.”

  “You gonna put the moves on the cook now?’ Arn asked.

  “Chef,” she said. “He’s a chef, not just a cook. And he might be… dateable. I won’t know until I speak with him.”

  “Well, get ready, ’cause here he comes with the waitress…” Arn froze for the briefest moment before putting his hand in his pocket and resting it on the butt of his gun.

  Ana Maria followed Arn’s gaze and she stiffened. A small man no taller than the waitress walked toward their table. His perfectly-creased and starched tall hat was perched on his head at a rakish angle, and his grin showed perfectly white pearlies. Like he always did when he smiled at Ana Maria in the courtroom.

  Doc Henry stopped beside the table. He took off his hat and exaggerated a deep bow. “I thought that was you coming through the door. So glad to see you,” he smiled at Ana Maria and his grin faded as he turned to Arn. “I can’t say the same for your dining companion.”

  “Doc Henry,” Arn breathed deeply to calm himself. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Doc waved his hat at the other diners. “I am preparing meals for these fine folks, of course.”

  “I mean here in Cheyenne? I heard you were paroled, but I also heard you’re supposed to be in Colorado.”

  “Keeping track of me?”

  “Damn straight,” Arn said. “But I still don’t know how you were paroled after only six years.”

  “You might say I impressed the parole board with my… cooperation. But—as you might guess—I was pleased to be transferred out of Florence ADX and to Centennial. Do you know what it’s like to be housed between Ramzi Yousef and Ted Kaczynski and not even be able to talk to them about their… exploits.”

  He slid a chair out and began to sit when Arn said, “don’t bother. You’re not staying at this table long enough to get comfortable.”

  Doc smiled and put his hat on. “I see you’re a
mite flummoxed by my release. Suffice it to say, when I was in Centennial, I was able to study cooking, and expanded my education once I was transferred again, that time to Buena Vista. I became somewhat of a celebrity to the prison staff with my culinary prowess. And it impressed the parole board as well. So naturally when I earned release the Department of Corrections allowed my parole to be transferred to where I could obtain a position worthy of my skills. And, voila! Here I am at Mimi’s utilizing my talents. And I have been here for two months now.”

  Arn started to stand when Doc backed away and grabbed his cell phone from the pocket of his apron. “If you lay even one finger on me, Anderson, I’ll call the law. Then I’ll own everything you own, including that shack you call a house.” He snapped his fingers. “You know, I’ve always wanted a classic 442 like yours.”

  Arn stood abruptly and his chair toppled. Diners stared at him as he stepped toward Doc.

  “One more step,” he waved his hand around the restaurant, “and there’ll be about thirty witnesses I can call into court.”

  10

  ARN SAT IN THE SEWING room close to Ana Maria. Waiting. Patiently. As he would any victim who had experienced the horror she had. And tonight at Mimi’s—when Doc Henry came prancing out of the kitchen to their table—it all washed over her memories once again. She looked up as Danny entered the room. “The alarm system’s working perfectly,” he said.

  “Didn’t you check the deadbolts?” Arn snapped at Danny. “Sorry. I’m just a little frazzled myself at seeing that bastard tonight.”

  “Understood,” Danny said. “I’ll grab us some coffee.”

  When Danny left the room, Arn gently laid his hand on Ana Maria’s trembling shoulder. She forced a smile and handed Arn his snotty bandana back.

  “Keep it,” he said. “No telling when you’ll need it again.”