Hunting the VA Slayer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Not of idiots like them,” Ethan said. “Pushing their weight around like they’re somebody, and all the while all they want to do is disrupt people‘s lives.”

  “You think all the elaborate games are a cover?”

  Ethan wiped ketchup from the corner of his mouth and speared another French fry. “I do. They follow some charismatic leader who has convinced them that they can belong to a group. At any expense. They will storm the line of police, getting their heads busted, earning a night in jail just to belong. That’s why they are dangerous—crowd mentality.”

  Arn dug Jonah’s photo out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “That’s their charismatic leader you mentioned. He’s nowhere to be found, but I’m thinking he must be close to his followers outside. Seen him in the facility today?”

  Ethan held the photo to the light before handing it back. “I passed him in the hallway… a few hours ago. And last week I spoke with him briefly under the veranda at the VA in Hot Springs.”

  Arn did the math. If Jonah was in Hot Springs this past week… “Can you be more specific as to what day in Hot Springs?”

  “I’ll look at my planner when I return to the office,” Ethan said. “Are you thinking this man might by the one you suspect is killing veterans?”

  “He just floated to the top of the suspect bowl,” Arn said, finishing his coffee, “and I’d like nothing better than to pull the handle and watch him swirl down the crapper.”

  31

  THE PERFECT STORM—WHAT A CLICHÉ. But that just what this is. Righteous Sword of the Lord troops protesting outside the facility. VA security and the local police tied up. Everyone inside distracted with what is happening right outside their windows. Like drivers motoring slowly past a gruesome traffic accident—they have to watch. They have to know. But when they actually see the spectacle that nightmares are made of, they turn away in disgust, vowing never to look at another accident like that again.

  Until the next time.

  That’s what I told myself after killing Captain Sims three years ago—never again will I look at another accident. Never again will I kill another. But like drivers slowing to gawk in passing, I only slowed down until I could no longer look. And I killed again. And again. Until now I am unable to stop. But do I really want to stop? I keep telling myself what I do is necessary. That I am selective. I tell myself it is only officers who have wronged others beneath them. And all have been guilty of pushing their weight upon lower ranks. Except that one veteran’s son in Hot Springs. But at least I moved on—it was an honest mistake that I’ll never repeat.

  But I know better.

  I would kill to protect my mission that is so pure. So genuine. Unlike those RSL fools outside the facility, making noise and doing damage for what? Some perceived notion that has no chance of succeeding?

  I would even kill Anderson if I had to.

  I wondered if I would be forced to a moment ago. When he entered the waiting room where all the old veterans sat, watching the events unfold outside, he almost saw me. I had just returned from checking the restroom. Making certain no one was inside. Making certain nothing had changed. Taking nothing for granted anymore.

  I would have run right into Anderson. He would have asked questions, like what the hell was I doing in this waiting room? If I hadn’t seen the cowboy hat perched on his big, gomby head I might have been spotted. But I backed out of the room with him none the wiser.

  Just another vet wandering the hallways.

  I hope I never have to confront him. I hope I never have to dispatch Anderson. All I really want to do is saddle my sorrel and take leisurely rides to clear my head. Or hit the blackjack table at Deadwood and wager my ass off. Anything to get my mind off off him. From what I’m afraid I’ll have to do eventually.

  On the other hand, it would be exciting to see him writhing on a tile floor as I slip the needle under his tongue.

  Or slice through a jugular with this old Barlow knife of mine.

  32

  SAMANTHA SLID INTO THE BOOTH beside Arn. She took off her ball cap and pink knitted scarf and dropped them beside her while she waved for the waitress. “I’m a little more than worried. Arn, what should I do?”

  “Do?”

  She waited until the waitress dropped off her iced tea and left with their order before lowering her voice. “Yes. I was at the VA yesterday when the police locked it down. Right there. At the facility when that janitor discovered that poor man’s body in the restroom. I’m no prude. I have two tours in Iraq under my garter belt and some time in Kuwait and have seen enough not to be squeamish. But I just know that man didn’t die of a heart attack like Wagner speculates. What should I do?”

  “Again, what do you mean, do?”

  “What if I had walked in on the killer in the restroom as he was murdering that old man?”

  “First thing I’d do is turn around and walk out if I were you.”

  “What?”

  “If you were in the men’s restroom, you went in the wrong door.”

  She elbowed him in the ribs. “You know what I mean. A man killed right under the noses of all those vets watching the riot.”

  Samantha had returned to her office too late—the protest had already begun, and she was spared the duty of suiting up in riot gear. When Arn left the VA center as the riot got under control—and still no sign of Jonah—he had caught a ride in a police cruiser following a police van full of angry, arrested protestors being transported to the county jail. One ambulance had already departed for the hospital Emergency Room with a protestor sporting a busted head, the other EMS unit treating an officer and a protestor by the VA entrance.

  He had only learned about the latest victim when the policeman dropped him off at the Public Safety Building.

  “What did the police chief tell you?”

  “The bare minimum after he found out I saw nothing unusual while walking the halls.”

  Arn told her he had scoured the VA all during the riot but failed to locate Jonah. If he were ever there.

  “Got another body here at the VA,” Oblanski had stammered out of breath just as Arn pulled to the curb in front of his house. “Some Vietnam vet dead in the shitter by the waiting room. Looks like a heart attack.” Shouting in the background drowned out Oblanski’s voice until he apparently shielded his phone with his hand. “DCI evidence van is in route, and I’m up to my ass in alligators with these rioters. Talk later,” and hung up.

  “You might have seen the killer and didn’t know it,” Sam said. She wrapped her hand around her mug of hot chocolate. “God, what if he saw you and suspects you’ll eventually realize it—.”

  “Nothing to recognize. I still don’t know that he—or she—looks like.”

  “And you don’t think this Colonel Jonah was there, somehow directing his troops and,” she shuddered, “staging the murder in the restroom?”

  The waitress brought their lunch: Sam a double-stacked burger with onion rings spilling out of the bun, Arn a chicken salad. Hold any dressing that might make the salad palatable. “All Jonah Barb is right now is a person of interest,” Arn said, his mind drifting to the real person of interest sitting next to him. “The only reason the police need to re-interview him might be more coincidences than anything else. Jonah was in VA facilities or on the grounds at VA centers during the dates of five of the nine suspicious deaths.” He stabbed a piece of chicken. “Wandering the halls by the looks of the surveillance cameras.”

  “But you don’t buy it?”

  “I don’t buy it,” Arn said. “I think Jonah was at those VA centers scouting ahead of time. Looking for where the surveillance cameras were placed. Noting exits and entrances. Things he’d need to know if he were organizing a protest.”

  “When will you know more?”

  Arn checked his watch. “Chief Oblanski told me to stop by after f
ive o-clock—hopefully after Gorilla Legs leaves for the day—and he’ll fill me in.”

  “Who’s Gorilla Legs?” Sam asked.

  “Some bohunk woman who wants a piece of my ass ’cause I yelled at her earlier. I’ll call you when I know more.”

  “Let’s just talk about it over dinner,” Sam said. “Danny said he’s making something special.”

  “Danny?”

  “Yes. Your… house man. Ana Maria invited me over. Seems like she’s got a problem with an old truck she’s working on.”

  “That old International I bought off some Hutterites right outside Ethan in South Dakota? But what’s that got to do with supper?”

  “The old binder’s got a diesel motor, and Ana Maria said she’s light on diesels. But she knows I worked on them in the Army. She said if I stopped by and took a look at it, Danny would fix something special.”

  “Everything Danny makes is special,” Arn said. “See you later.”

  —

  Arn dreaded confronting Gorilla Legs. He had to be certain when he was buzzed through the door and walked past her that he stayed away from her powerful arms. But as Arn walked through the door on the way to Oblanski’s office, she stepped closer, and Arn was sure she wanted a rematch. She stepped from around what Oblanski called “her throne,” smoothing her skirt that stopped just below her thick knees. Her hair had been pulled back in a neat chignon and held together by a bright red, bone holder. She smiled at Arn—something he thought her incapable of.

  “Chief Oblanski said you’d be stopping by,” her voice soft, yet a slight hiss as she talked through ill-fitting dentures. “Just go into the conference room. He’s expecting you.”

  Arn cautiously walked past her as he caught a whiff of some cologne, strong enough he imagined her falling into a fifty-five-gallon barrel of Channel No. 1.

  He kept her in the corner of his eye, expecting some ambush that would leave him bruised and bleeding, but her smiled remained pasted on her face until he walked into the conference room “I ought to have you come by more often,” Oblanski said. “Gorilla Legs has been… well, you saw her.”

  “I did,” Arn said, “but I wasn’t sure it was some variation of Invasion of the Body Snatchers or something. She’s actually pleasant—bite my tongue.”

  ‘She was nice to me, too. Ever since I came in this morning, all she could talk about is the great retired Denver Metro detective Arn Anderson.”

  “She detests me.”

  “Seems like she finally found a strong man that’s not afraid to put her in her place when necessary,” Oblanski said. “Your show of strength yesterday when you bulled past her made an impression.” He winked. “Want her number?”

  “What?”

  “Her phone number,” Oblanski said, smiling, obviously enjoying this. “She’s not spoken for. She’s single. Just like you.”

  “Now you can bite your tongue. All I want to do is find out about the body the VA found yesterday.”

  Oblanski motioned to photos spread out on the long table. “Here’s what they found—same thing as Frank Mosby. And the others if your theory is correct. Slight bruising on the side of the neck consistent with a blow of some sorts. He just retired from a civilian position at F. E. Warren Air Base last month. Major Leonard Mills. At least he was a Marine Major in Vietnam when he was there. Still had his officer bumper sticker on his BMW that we found parked in the lot.”

  Arn studied the photos. The victim lay slumped on the floor, his head resting against the door of the stall. His double-breasted western shirt was half-out of his Wranglers and one polished boot had been trapped under the sink when he fell.

  “Killer must have spotted the victim’s “O” sticker on Mills’ car as he parked, if your theory is right.”

  “Or our killer has learned to spot officers.”

  Oblanski chuckled. “Now you’re getting a little far afield, thinking this is some kind of Superman who can tell an officer when he sees one.”

  Arn picked up a photo and donned his readers. “Some years ago when I worked in Denver I had a case involving an Air Force Academy student who had been knifed to death. I went to the academy in Colorado Springs and spent nearly a week talking with other students and instructors, trying to get a handle on who might have killed the airman. By the end of the week, I got so I could ID officers even when they were in civilian clothes. Their swagger. The way they stopped at doors so others could open them for them. Subtle things.” He tapped the picture. “Our killer is a predator. Our killer has developed a sense where he—or she—can pick out officers in a crowd.”

  Oblanski nodded in agreement. “I don’t doubt that. And you’ll notice I mentioned the Major was a victim. I’m leaning toward your theory that these deaths are connected—at least the ones here in Cheyenne. This victim, though,” he ran his finger over another crime scene photo, “had no injection.”

  “None?”

  “Nothing except from the blood draw he must have had earlier.”

  Arn put on his readers and held the photo against the glare from the window. A bandage covered a small part over the vein in the major’s arm, and Arn thought back to his own blood draw a few days ago, to the itching from the Kerlix wrapped applied too tightly. “Did he actually have a blood draw today?”

  “What?”

  “A blood draw. Check to see if he actually had his blood taken.”

  “Of course he did.” Oblanski circled the major’s arm with his pencil. “The bandage proves it. They put one over the site where they tab you with the needle so it doesn’t get infected. Or have you never had a blood sample taken before?”

  “I have. A few days ago. And then—as every other time I had a blood draw at the hospital—the nurse taking the sample secured the Band-Aide with a couple wraps of Kerlix gauze. The major’s Band-Aid doesn’t come off.” Arn handed the photo back. “Do you see any Kerlix on his arm?”

  “Shit,” Oblanski said. “You’re right. There is none. And now that you bring it up, I’ve always had the Band-Aid secured with a wrap as well. Shit. Frank didn’t have Kerlix.”

  “And neither did the other victims if their photos are correct,” Arn said. “Ned, that’s how the killer got away with injecting his victims without us realizing it—he put a Band-Aid on after injecting their vein with the coke to make it appear as if they’d just had a blood draw. Simple.”

  “And we would never have e caught it without asking for a specific test for cocaine,” Oblanski breathed and slumped in his chair. “We’ll know more at autopsy, and the DCI is expediting Major Mills’ tox report.”

  Arn took off his hat and dropped into a chair. “I bet no one saw a thing?”

  Oblanski looked around until he found a pencil in a cup holder and started nibbling nervously. “We showed Jonah Barb’s photo around—.”

  “As did I. Got no takers.”

  “And neither did we. And neither did the surveillance cameras. Jonah might have been scouting other centers other times, but not this time. All the cameras captured were vets that folks could identify and employees working for the VA. If Jonah’s our man, he’s disguising himself pretty good.”

  “The back doors,” Arn said at last. “As I recall, there are two that have no surveillance camera coverage. There was a lapse of time from when your officers arrived, and you sent deputies around back to cover them.”

  Oblanski chewed the pencil eraser off and looked around for a fresh victim. “I have no argument for that. He—or anyone—could have slipped in those back doors before officers arrived to cover them.” He snapped the pencil in two. “But dammit, Jonah Barb is still MIA.”

  “And none of the protestors would say where he is.”

  Oblanski sat beside Arn, an exhausted look on his tanned face. “We arrested eleven—nine men and two women, including the two who had to make a trip to the hospital to get patched up
before we dumped them in the pokey. To a person, they claim they hadn’t seen their commander in over a week.”

  “Then who organized the protest?”

  “Jonah,” Oblanski said. “Through a secret email account that our forensic computer gurus discovered. So we’re back to square-one suspect wise.”

  33

  ARN WALKED INTO THE HOUSE to voices coming from the kitchen. He took off his boots before Danny-the-Cleanliness-Nazi reprimanded him for wearing them inside, and headed toward the noise. Ana Maria sat at the kitchen table across from Samantha, the sleeves of their plaid work shirts rolled up. Grime and grease had collected under their perfectly-manicured nails, and they both hugged mugs of steaming coffee. They looked up for a moment before continuing their conversation. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said.

  “You are excused,” Sam said and flashed a wide smile. “See, Ana Maria, even a famous Metro Denver detective can blush.”

  Arn felt pretty good about himself, having a beautiful woman flirt with him. Until he remembered Gorilla Legs doing the same thing and his ego instantly deflated. “I take it you got the old truck running?”

  “Like a new one,” Ana Maria said. “Thanks to Sam.”

  “And thanks to Ana Maria, I’ve managed to calm down over that body at the VA. Have they found out anything?”

  Arn grabbed a cup from the cup tree. “Let me grab some coffee first.”

  “We’re outta coffee,” Ana Maria said. “But green tea is brewing in the pot.”

  Arn figured this was no time to discuss his irregularity and poured tea before sitting at the table. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t see the truck sitting outside.”

  “That’s because Danny took it,” Ana Maria said.

  “Danny hasn’t had a driver’s license since 1979, and I haven’t bought current plates for it. Or insurance. What’s he driving it for?”

  “For an emergency,” Samantha answered.