Hunting the VA Slayer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Arn took off his hat and laid it crown-down on the counter beside the tip jar. “Tell me about the missus and the kids.”

  “Not much to tell about Beth—that was Mrs. Randall. She lit out with the girl to parts unknown. Never heard from either since. A shame too, as that girl was a cute little pot licker.”

  “But the boy wasn’t so cute, if the description you gave to Ana Maria is right.”

  The ashes in the trash can started smoldering and Sheriff Ridley looked at it for a moment before calmly tossing his coffee onto the ashes. “That boy Pudgy—that’s what everyone called the fat, crazy little bastard—was a lot like his old man. Always a chip on his shoulder. Once when I responded to their place for a family fight, I came out of the house to find one of my tires slashed and Pudgy sitting on the stoop whittling with an old Barlow knife of his. ‘You outta’ take better care of your car, sheriff,’ he says and grinned. I’m telling you, just the way he looked at me with that knife in his hand sent shivers down my spine. If I could have proved he done it, I would have hauled him in that night.” He spit in the trash can. “And a week later when all my tires were slashed sitting smack in front of the courthouse I figured it was Pudgy, but no one would come forward and say they saw him.”

  “Sounds like he was trouble?”

  “That’s an understatement. If I got a nickel for every time he ran from us law dogs I could have retired early.”

  “Driver was he?” Danny asked.

  Ridley nodded. “Ever since he could see over the wheel, Pudgy would take Bo’s car and hop it up. Come to town with that cute little sister of his beside him. He’d boil tires right in front of the courthouse and police station until one of us took the bait and chased him.”

  “Might there be a booking photo somewhere of Pudgy?”

  Ridley shook his head. “He was sneaky enough—and damned cunning enough—that he never got himself arrested.”

  “Whatever happened to him?” Danny asked.

  “Army if rumors are right.” Sheriff Ridley said, “Thank God. Pudgy got into the Rangers from what I heard, but I can’t verify it. Some folks said he came back now and again to visit Bo before he hung hisself but I can’t prove it.” He chuckled. “As much as Bo and Pudgy fought, he might have come back and done the old man in himself during one of his visits, he was just that cold hearted.”

  27

  ARN DRIED HIMSELF ON THE towel Evans Plunge had rented him and snapped Danny’s bony butt. It twanged and Danny howled. “That hurt.”

  “Figured I’d urge you along. I’m late for my appointment with Ethan Ames at the VA,” Arn said and tucked his shirt into his jeans. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

  Arn walked to the car parked in front of the mineral hot springs, the breeze finishing what the terry cloth towel missed. He put his Stetson on while he walked towards the Olds, a group of kids gawking at it.

  “That’s some ride you got there,” pone boy of about sixteen said. His arm encircled a girl’s waist as they peered inside. “But what’s that thing sticking out of the floor?”

  “In my day,” Arn said, “we called it a gear shift lever.”

  “Cool, dude,” he said and backed away to allow another boy to look inside. “I’ll bet pink slips I could beat you in the quarter with my car,” he said and pointed to some foreign outfit—Honda, maybe Toyota or Nissan, Arn never could tell the Japanese cars apart—parked at the far end of the lot. “No thanks,” Arn said as he tapped his chest. “Not sure this old ticker could stand one more race.” But Arn knew that most tuners the kids fine-synched today could beat any of the old muscle machines. And that’s with half the motor size.

  Danny emerged from Evans Plunge, his stringy, wet ponytail blowing across his face. The kids looked oddly at him as he climbed into the passenger side of the car. “Fans?”

  “Kid wanted to race me in that tuner car of his.”

  “You’d have lost.”

  “I know,” Arn said, and drove out of the parking lot.

  By the time they drove the few blocks to the VA facility, Danny’s hair was dry, and he tucked it under his ball cap. “Been here many times to pick up meds and for my yearly checkup.”

  “Your want this to be your last time here?” Arn asked.

  “How’s that?”

  Arn tapped the brim of Danny’s hat, the outline of Vietnam on the front, scrambled eggs on the brim. “No reason to advertise you’re a retired officer—.”

  “I wasn’t an officer,” Danny said. “I just bought this ’cause it looks cool.” He set it on the seat. “But I see your point. I’ll go down to the cafeteria and grab us coffee. Unless you want tea.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  They entered the enormous sandstone building, Danny peeling off toward the cafeteria, Arn standing staring at the legend hanging on the wall. Dr. Ames’ office was situated at the far end of the hallway, and Arn stepped around a Korean War vet slowly making his way down the hall with the aid of a walker as a younger man wearing an Occupation Iraqi Freedom t-shirt walked beside him, ready to help if necessary.

  When Arn entered the outer room of the mental health wing, a patient consultation in progress sign hung on the door by a suction cup. “Doctor Ames will be finished shortly,”

  a woman said from somewhere under the counter. She stood holding file folders, her glasses hanging by a chain from around her neck. Navy under a ship’s anchor had been tattooed on one forearm. “Please be seated,” she said after she took her pen from her mouth and glanced at her desk pad, “Mr. Anderson.”

  Arn sat and sifted through the magazines splayed across a coffee table beside the chairs. Unlike most doctor’s offices with their Good Housekeeping and Pregnancy Today and old copies of Reader’s Digest, the reading material here consisted of Guns and Ammo and Western Horseman and American Legion magazines. He picked up a copy of last summer’s American Legion and was half-way through an article on the Marines at Belleau Wood when Dr. Ames’ door opened. He led a man wearing an Operation Enduring Freedom hat out of the office. “Get with Michelle and make an appointment for next week. I think that’s when I’m here again.”

  The veteran merely nodded as he plodded towards the secretary’s desk, his gaze never leaving the floor.

  Ethan stood in his doorway. “Mr. Anderson—we seem to pass one another in our travels. Michelle said you wanted to see me, but I’m scheduled to be in Cheyenne again later this week.”

  “I was in the area and thought I’d drop by while I was here.”

  “And you hit the mineral springs I’d wager?”

  “Did me wonders,” Arn said.

  Ethan motioned for Arn to enter and he pointed to a chair. “If I got a nickel for every veteran I’ve seen lately with PTSD I could retire and live on some fancy ranch somewhere.”

  “I’ve heard it’s become more common with this new crop of combat vets leaving the military.”

  Ethan sat behind his desk and unwrapped a piece of gum. He popped it into his mouth, folding the silver wrapper neatly into a tiny square. “It is more common. I’ve even treated women who had support roles in Iraq and Afghanistan suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.” He lobbed the piece of wrapper into a trash can beside his desk. “We know how to better diagnose and treat the affliction now.”

  “Would someone suffering from PTSD be able to function for any length of time?”

  “Of course!” he snapped, then held up his hand. “Sorry, Mr. Anderson. I just get a little emotional when people begin thinking that veterans can’t handle society.”

  “Understood,” Arn said.

  Ethan propped a scuffed boot on an open desk drawer and looked up at the slowly rotating ceiling fan. “Veterans have suffered from what we psychiatrists called shell shock in World War One and, later in World War Two, CSR, or Combat Stress Reaction. The medical community has been treating diseases
like dissociation disorder and psychogenic fatigue for years until we really got a handle on it. We can even screen for predisposition of PTSD by testing for low levels of cortisol.”

  “But you treat it with therapy?”

  A smile crossed Ethan’s face as if reliving his fight against the disorder. “Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is now the drug of choice. But to answer your question, most veterans can function in society without anyone knowing they have PTSD. With proper treatment.” He dropped his boot on the floor and leaned his elbows on his desk. “But you didn’t come here for a lesson in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. You came here to ask about my insight into these deaths you believe were murders.”

  Arn set his hat on the chair beside him and ran his fingers through his hair that was still damp from the mineral springs. “Frank Mosby’s body and Steve Urchek’s were both exhumed. Both had injection sites under their tongues. Both toxicology tests came back as overdoses of cocaine. Remember that list I gave you with the names of the victims?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “I got word this morning that you treated one of the men—Johnny McGomerary—a few years ago for substance abuse.” Wagner had researched all the names on the victims’ list and called Arn this morning. Lieutenant McGomerary, living and unemployed in Cheyenne, was Dr. Ames’ only patient on the list.

  Ethan stood and looked out into the parking lot. “How did you get this information?”

  “Does it matter?” Arn said. “All I need to know is some background on McGomerary.”

  “I cannot help you,” Ethan said. “Patient confidentiality.”

  “The man’s dead, for God’s sake!” Arn blurted out. “I’m sure he’ll give you no grief if you tell me about him. Might help other veterans from being murdered.”

  When he faced Arn again, his mouth had downturned in sadness. “You are absolutely right, and I apologize.” He sat back into his chair and leaned on his elbows once again. “Lieutenant—Johnny—McGomerary was a troubled soul. Homeless.” He held up his hand. “Before you ask, he didn’t want help. He didn’t want to go into a shelter. He came to me with a cocaine addiction two years ago. He’d lost his job. Lost his family. He was at his bottom. But with therapy, he was on the right track to full recovery. Or so I thought.”

  “What changed it?”

  “Denver,” Ethan said. “Johnny had an early appointment at the Denver VA, but he had no way to get there.”

  “I thought there is a DAV shuttle that goes down there daily.”

  “There is,” Ethan said, “but it leaves from Cheyenne at eight o’clock—the time Johnny’s cardiology appointment was. I took the day off to drive him there.” He looked away to the photo of a young Ethan Ames in a color guard in Casper hanging on one wall. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts as he straightened the photo. “After Johnny’s appointment, he wanted to buy cigarettes. I don’t abide by smoking, but that was the least of his worries. He said he knew a tiny smoke shop along E. Colfax that sold cheap cigarettes and I stopped there. Bad idea.”

  Ethan started pacing, gesturing with his hands. “Johnny walked out back of the smoke shop after he bought his cigarettes. I figured he needed to take a leak, but after ten minutes, I went to check on him. His drug dealer was just pocketing the money Johnny paid for an eight ball.” Ethan dabbed at his eyes.

  “That’s not cheap.”

  Ethan shrugged. “He had gotten a job at Albertson’s bagging groceries, and I figured he saved up a couple paychecks to buy his dope. I figured he was planning to go off the wagon for some time.” Ethan sat on the edge of his desk. “Johnny went downhill after that. Skipping therapy sessions. Hanging with some other druggies in town. So it doesn’t surprise me that he died of a cocaine overdose.” He stopped and looked down at Arn. “So you see, I doubt Johnny was murdered. My guess is he just OD’d on his own. Like so many other poor souls have.”

  “I disagree, “Arn said. “I’ve developed a certain sense of when something isn’t right. And these deaths stink. Including Lieutenant McGomerary’s.”

  Ethan spit his gum out and popped in a fresh piece. “Let us say—for the sake of argument—that you are correct. Let us say that there is some malevolent man—or woman—stalking and killing vets. Who would you put at the top of a suspect list?”

  “Like you said before, Ethan, someone like you. Someone who travels to VA hospitals where deaths have occurred.”

  Ethan smiled. “And what motive would I have?”

  “Don’t know that you would.”

  “Then I would run one suspect by you. Or I should say, a bunch of suspects—that Righteous Sword of the Lord fanatics. I’ve been following Ana Maria Villarreal’s coverage of that bunch of fools, and they are even scarier than she depicts them.”

  “You’ve had run-ins with them?”

  “They have been protesting at several facilities the day I had appointments. And every time, I literally had to fight my way past them.” He smiled again. “But they’re nothing that I can’t handle,”

  “Then tell me, have you treated their leader, Jonah Barb?”

  “Why would he be a patient of mine?”

  “Anger issues,” Arn said. “Seems he kicked the hell out of an officer in Iraq and earned himself an Undesirable Discharge.”

  “I cannot treat anyone with an Undesirable or a Dishonorable. Doesn’t mean I would rule out him as a suspect.” Ethan stood and grabbed his briefcase. “But I have to run, Mr. Anderson. I have a date with destiny.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I have been ordered to attend a class with Winger… Steven Hays.”

  “Never heard of a doctor needing to go to a custody control class.”

  “Well, it’s heavy on control,” Ethan said as he led Arn out his office. “VA regs say anyone dealing with violent patients needs to attend. Believe me, if there was some way I could beg out of it I would. But Winger is here just for this makeup class that I conveniently missed the last time.”

  Arn rubbed his neck as if still feeling the impact of the brachial stun Holder whipped on him. “Go to the restroom first.”

  Ethan stopped rigid. “Why should I do that?”

  “Because if it’s anything like the class I went to with Holder, you’re likely to pee your pants after he’s done.”

  28

  ANDERSON AND SOME ANOREXIC OLD Indian pull away from the VA center. He wasn’t inside long—just enough to make his stop and grab a bite at the lunchroom. But then, I figured he wouldn’t be. I thought he might have learned something significant from Sheriff Ridley before coming here, but what could he learn? I haven ‘t been back home since… well, since pappy hung himself. I attended the funeral, though I had changed enough no one recognized me anyway. Except old bucktoothed Mary Ann whom I ignored when she called my name on the street.

  What could Anderson hope to learn here? There were no witnesses to my latest… victim as Anderson and Ana Maria calls them, and I kick myself in the butt again for killing an innocent man. But not hard enough to waltz into the police station and confess my dastardly deeds.

  Ana Maria’s last nightly Cheyenne broadcast about the RSL was followed by little more than a teaser about a special to come covering the veteran’s deaths. She had no idea who is behind the suspicious death or if they even were murdered, though it’s more dramatic for her to purport she knows. Teasing!

  But what if the law, and Anderson and the reporter do have more information? I began to lose sleep, wracking my brain, thinking where I made a mistake. Until I realize I made none.

  I confounded and will continue to confound the law, dumb as they are.

  Still, I have read everything about Anderson I could get online: former homicide detective who solved every case assigned to him. And he solved a case of serial killings in Cheyenne two years ago when the local law could not. For a brief moment, I wish Anders
on were an officer, but I checked that, too. He’s not prior military. He’s not one of us. It would make it so easy if he were. I could—in good conscience—rid myself of that bastard before he found out more.

  But he won’t find out about me. He won’t find out how bitter I was when pappy hung himself, and he won’t find out that Pap’s intense hatred for the elite was passed down to me. All those years living with a man incensed with the officer class of life rubbed off onto me. Or perhaps I welcomed it, I don’t know. Perhaps I ought to seek therapy somewhere.

  When I attended his funeral—keeping well away from Sheriff Ridley and another deputy, the only ones attending—I couldn’t fault Pap for hanging himself. As he was lowered into his grave inside a rough-hewn pine box, I thought how I wish I would have had the chance to talk him out of it. I know I could have talked him down, once he saw me in uniform. Once he saw what I had become.

  Pap, why did you do it? Did the hate you felt all those years finally catch up with you? I know why you felt as you did—Lord knows I had enough run-ins with officers myself that didn’t turn out well. Your inveterate hatred for officers was always at the periphery of my thoughts.

  Mama.

  How many times have I searched online for her, for where she and Sis lit out to when she and Pap broke up? Surely, she would have some insight into how I should deal with my feelings passed down over so many years by the man she once loved. She would know what I should do.

  But try as I might, she and Sis’ whereabouts are unknown to me.

  I suspect I will have this hatred and fury inside me until someone like Ana Maria Villarreal or Anderson catches me.

  But that’s something I cannot allow.