Hunting the VA Slayer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Maybe just a tiny fib,” Arn said. “But this?”

  Sam had called Arn to tell him that she was free tonight. No, it was more a suggestion from a strong-willed woman, but Arn didn’t know if he should. She was—after all—one of the people she suspected in the killing of innocent vets.

  It was Ana Maria who had talked him into it. “She dropped her guard a few days ago when we were working on your old truck. If you loosen her up with your… what’s the word, Danny?”

  “It’s certainly not charm,” Danny said. “Maybe old cop bullshit.”

  “Whatever it is, you might hit pay dirt,” Ana Maria said. “She might just slip up.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Arn said. “Outback Restaurant’s not cheap. Hope to get something out of this evening.”

  “Romance?” Danny asked, and Arn blushed. “Loverboy.”

  —

  Outback’s parking lot was packed tonight as it usually was, and Arn parked the Olds at the far end of the lot next to Home Depot. Ana Maria had called in a reservation for seven o’clock, and it looked like that was the same time everyone else had reserved.

  He climbed out and loosened his tie the tiniest bit. He wasn’t used to wearing them, or a sport coat, but Ana Maria assured him that dressing up would impress Sam enough that she might slip. If she were involved in the VA deaths.

  He shut the door and the dome light went out, plunging this part of the lot into darkness. Is this a date or an interrogation? Ana Maria had asked, and Arn still had no answer. He liked to think that she invited him out—in a roundabout way—for a dinner date. As for the interrogation—would this be he interrogating her in his own way, or would it be Sam subtly interrogating him to learn how his investigation is coming along?

  He patted the fender of the car as if saying goodbye to an old friend before taking a last, deep, calming breath. He started for the door when…

  …his periphery. Coming fast. Coming hard. Something shiny…

  …he turned into the object crashing onto his head, absorbing the blow. Dropping to his knees. A mask in the darkness.

  Lashing out, his hand jutting beneath the mask. Grabbing hair. Falling.

  Something shiny reflecting the light over the door of Outback. His attacker cocking the object for another blow as…

  “Hey!” a voice boomed out. “Bobby, you run thataway and I’ll cut the bastard off this other way.”

  Feet running across the lot. A woman kneeling beside him. Calling 911 moments before the night went even darker.

  —

  “He’s coming around,” Sam said and Arn’s eyes flickered.

  “Don’t try sitting up just yet,” a woman in blue nurse’s scrubs said, and handed him a glass with a bent straw sticking out of it. “Just relax for a while and your friends can take you home.”

  “She’s right,” Sam said. “You need to take it easy. That’s a nasty bump on the side of your head.”

  “Lucky it only took six stitches,” Ana Maria added.

  “Funny, I don’t feel lucky. What the hell happened?”

  Sam forced a smile. “What happened is you missed our dinner date. Somebody waylaid you in Outback’s parking lot.”

  “Then you saw what happened?”

  Sam shook her head. “I was a little late for dinner changing a flat tire, and I turned off Lincolnway just as the ambulance was pulling out. All I know is what Ana Maria knows,” Sam said as she stroked his forehead, voice soothing even as his head throbbed.

  “I got the call from my cameraman to roll to Outback Steak House,” Ana Maria said. “I interviewed the two guys and their dates who saw your attacker.”

  “Oh hell,” Arn said, “just leave me in the dark about what the hell happened.”

  “I’m getting to it,” Ana Maria said. “Two ranchers from outside Wheatland were in town with their wives shopping, and thought they’d grab a steak at Outback. When they came out the door and saw you lying there clawing up at whoever attacked you, they chased him.”

  “At least you put up a fight going down.” Oblanski stepped into Arn’s hospital room and grabbed a chair. He sat backwards and draped his arms over the side.

  “Who was it?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” Oblanski said. “Those ranch boys might have been heavy in the bull dogging but they sure lack in the running department. By the time they hit the end of the parking lot, your attacker was nowhere to be found. Kicked the afterburners in and was just gone they said.”

  Oblanski’s phone rang and he stepped out into the hallway to answer it.

  “Didn’t you see anything?” Arn asked Sam.

  “I told you I was tied up changing my tire.” She continued stroking his head, the pain easing even as she spoke soothingly. “I feel so guilty. If I had been on time, I might have been able to run the person to ground—.”

  “Samantha,” Oblanski said when he stepped back into the room pocketing his cell phone. “I just got off the phone with my investigators. I need you to come down to the PD with me.”

  —

  “Don’t get up,” Oblanski told Arn.

  “Don’t worry,” he gingerly patted the bandage on his head. “I won’t.”

  “Would you like a nice big slab of rhubarb pie, Chief?” Danny asked.

  “Rhubarb’s my favorite.”

  “I’ll take one, too,” Ana Maria said.

  “Not tonight,” Danny’s voice trailing off on the way to the kitchen. “You’re starting a diet along with Arn.”

  Arn sat up in his recliner and Ana Maria propped a pillow behind him. “Let’s have the bad news.”

  “There is no news, good or bad. Sam wouldn’t come off anything except she was late changing a tire on her truck.”

  “That ought to be easy enough to verify.”

  “One of my guys is checking with Big O Tires now to see if she dropped one off as she claimed.”

  “Apart from that,” Ana Maria said and scooted her chair closer to Oblanski’s, “why did you even suspect her?”

  “Off the record?”

  Ana Maria nodded. “Of course.”

  “Ok, here’s the skinny—when those ranchers chased your attacker through the alley, we had a direction of travel. Brought the K-9 in and Harpo got right on the track. We found this.” Oblanski punched a photo icon on his phone and handed it to Arn.

  Arn pulled the reading light closer over his shoulder and expanded the image.

  “That Craftsman crescent wrench was found a half-block from Mimi’s parking lot. See the etching on the side next to that smear of your blood?”

  Arn could just make out the initials, s.h. “Samantha Holder,” Arn breathed. “But that can’t be.”

  “She knew you’d be there in the parking lot. I thought of that as I was wrapping up my broadcast on it,” Ana Maria told Oblanski. “But that’s not enough to hold her.”

  “It wasn’t.” He advanced a couple more images on his phone. “But here,” he showed Ana Maria, “is a fresh injury on her knuckles consistent with Arn struggling with her.”

  “Mechanics get scuffed knuckles all the time,” Ana Maria said.

  “That’s what Samantha claimed. Scuffed her knuckles when the four-way slipped off a lug nut. And when the officers checked her truck parked across from Outback, they found a pair of running shoes.”

  “There you have it!” Arn said, finding himself suddenly defending Samantha. “A pair of running shoes. I’m sure she’ll get sent away to the Women’s Prison in Lusk for that.”

  Danny entered the room with a tray containing four coffee cups and one piece of rhubarb pie. “Bon appetite,” he told Oblanski and handed him the plate and a fork.

  “Ned,” Arn said, “a lot of people run nowadays. I’d be running myself if—.”

  “If you weren’t a… bit overweight.”


  “I am not overweight,” Arn said. “I’m just undertail for my weight.”

  Oblanski took the first bite of his pie, and Arn became jealous.

  Until the chief’s lips puckered up like he was going to bend over and kiss Arn and he grabbed for his coffee cup. “Danny, did you forget to put sugar into your recipe? Oblanski asked when he was able to speak again.

  Danny wore a slight grin as he said, “I didn’t put any sugar in. Like you said, Arn there needs to cut down on his sugar intake.”

  When Oblanski didn’t take another bite, Danny prodded him. “If you finish it off, I can get you another to take home to the missus.”

  Arn understood. Danny’d had enough run-ins with the law that he was no fan of police. Even Oblanski, and it was Danny’s subtle way of getting back. Passive aggressive? He’d ask Ethan next time he talked with him.

  “Sam gave us a sample of her blood that the lab will compare to the dried blood on the handle of the crescent wrench, but I think it’s yours,” he told Arn. We’ll know in a day or two if there’s a match. But it’ll take longer to get a DNA match on the hair.”

  “What hair?”

  “You grabbed a clump of your attacker’s hair and came away with enough for a test. Sorry,” Ana Maria said, “didn’t mean to steal your thunder.”

  “Steal away,” Oblanski said and held up his empty coffee cup for a refill. When Danny left, he whispered to Ana Maria, “any place to… deposit this pie?”

  “Here,” she passed a small trash can to Oblanski and he dumped the pie right before Danny came back with more coffee.

  “Another piece?” Danny asked as he handed the chief his cup.

  Oblanski patted his stomach. “I need to cut down myself.” He leaned into Arn. “There were four strands of hair stuck between your fingers that you pulled out in the scuffle. They could have belonged to half the population by the color. Certainly, could be Samantha’s hair. Our evidence tech says there are two of the four strands that have been pulled. With roots. More than enough to test, and I’ve put a rush on the DNA test. Until then, I’d suggest stay away from her as we told her the same thing—stay away from you.”

  “Did she give you blood and hair samples?”

  “She volunteered to give samples without us needing a search warrant.”

  “That should show she wasn’t involved. Did she say anything profound?”

  “She didn’t she say anything about the attack when The Mauler questioned her, except ‘you’re nuts if you think I’d attack Arn Anderson with a Craftsman wrench. I’ve always been a Snap-On Tool girl.’”

  37

  WHAT A PISSER! AND THE day was going so good up until tonight, too. I’d scored dope with my… supplier for future use, which, I’m certain, I will soon need. I knew Anderson would be arriving early to Outback. At Night. Pitch black. The perfect time to ambush him. Scare him off. Make him think twice about his crappy investigation. All I had to do was hit the big bastard a solid blow on his noggin with the wrench and that would be the end of Anderson for the night. By the time he recuperated, he would have the notion out of his head that the veterans’ deaths are connected. Or at least that’s what he’d tell everyone as he secretly worried about being the next victim.

  So unlike the others with their stark cleanliness. Anderson wouldn’t have the luxury of just lying down as if he’d had a heart attack. His warning would be… bloody. But wasn’t that my point—make it as dramatic as possible so he and—subsequently—that reporter roommate of his would drop it.

  Everything was going so good tonight, hiding on one side of that horse trailer with Anderson dreaming of what the end of the evening might bring. Until those two peckerwoods straight out of Hee Haw came busting out the door and spotted me. They gave chase, in a manner of speaking. Even if they were runners, they would have little chance of catching me. I am, after all, former Army and used to physical exertions. Like running.

  I look in the mirror at the hair that Anderson yanked out on his way down, and I see I can comb other strands over the missing clump. No one will be the wiser.

  In the end, I am of the opinion that Anderson got the message. That was my goal tonight, wasn’t it?

  Then why am I so down in the dumps? I wonder that as I set here watching veterans stroll by at the VA Center here in Cheyenne… that’s why I am so down on myself right now. As much as I wanted to send Anderson a warning, I wanted something more. If those ranchers hadn’t come out of the Outback when they did, I would most assuredly hit him again. And again. And again, until his death would be the warming I wanted to convey.

  But once again, I know it is not my fault. I cannot beat myself up over a twist of fate like those hayseeds walking in on the attack.

  That which does not kill us makes us stronger. I just hope Anderson never read the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche. The last thing I want is a stronger Arn Anderson.

  38

  ARN WANTED TO GET OUT of the house before the walls closed in on him. Or before Danny’s constant pounding with his dry wall hammer threatened to crush Arn’s already-throbbing head. He started for his car when he thought it better to check if Sam was in Cheyenne today. He so wanted her not to be involved, but there were as many factors pointing to her as the killer as there was Jonah and Winger.

  Sam’s secretary ran offices for two other traveling VA people, and she told Arn that Sam took a personal day off. “She stormed in here this morning, and I thought she was going to kick somebody’s butt. ‘If that little bastard who interrogated me last night were right here—right in front of me—I’d put a boot in his rectum. Accusing me of attacking Arn Anderson. I’m going home.’ And that’s just what she did.”

  “To Rapid City.”

  “Uh, huh,” the secretary answered. “Sam has a little bit of a temper, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “I noticed.”

  “And when she blows her top, the only thing that calms her is to saddle her mare and take a ride through the hills.”

  That was all right with Arn. Though he had growing feelings for Sam, he also knew those feelings could cloud his judgement. Something he didn’t need right now. His head was clouded enough already, and not just from the pain.

  He pulled into the Cheyenne VA lot and stepped around a legless Vietnam veteran being pushed in a wheelchair by a woman the vet’s age. Thanks for all you’ve sacrificed Arn thought as he passed the wounded man before he stopped. How many times had Arn secretly expressed his gratitude for veteran’s sacrifices as if ashamed to say it aloud to the very men and women who gave so much so that Arn could walk here free?

  He waited until the man’s wheelchair came abreast of him before thrusting out his hand. “I want to thank you so much for all you’ve done for our country.”

  The man looked up at Arn through one good eye, the other camouflaged by a milky white and he took Arn’s hand. Even wounded, the veteran displayed a vice-like grip as his calloused hand held Arn’s for a long moment. “Wasn’t always gratitude for us boys returning from ’Nam,” he said. “Mostly, people spit on us. Mostly piss-ant little school kids who’d gotten a college deferment because their daddies had enough money to keep them in school.” A tear ran down his one good eye and he chin-pointed to the woman pushing his wheelchair. “Like I told Emily, now and again someone thanks me. Now and again someone is genuine in their gratitude.” A smile crept across his face and he snapped a three-fingered salute. All he could do with his blown-up hand. “Thanks, pard’ner.”

  Arn stepped aside, humbled by the old man’s graciousness. How many more veterans were treated the exact same way as he described, with such abject disrespect, no one could know. But what Arn did know is that—if he dug deeper and found the VA Slayer—no one else need die.

  He found Sgt. Wagner tapping keys as he squinted at his computer screen. “I’m getting goofy looking at all these records, but I
finally got all them sent to me.” He stood and grabbed file folders and tucked them under his arm. “Let’s take a walk to the courtyard… there are no ears there.”

  They stepped outside just as a Korean War Marine made his way on a wobbly walker to the door and disappeared. “Tell me you’ve found something.”

  Wagner lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings upward. “Here’s what I found—Winger got an article 15 twice for fighting, and he had nasty words with his CO, so you know he’s got a hard-on for officers. Jonah we already knew about because he earned himself an undesirable discharge, compliments of his Executive Officer. Seth seems to have had a chip on his shoulder ever since joining the Army, but then there’s a lot of Special Forces guys like Rangers have a chips on their shoulder. It what sets them apart and makes them such gnarly soldiers.” He leaned closer. “Even women started joining Special Ops some years ago.”

  “And Sam? Was she ever written up?”

  Wagner looked around, making sure no one else had slipped into the courtyard and turned to his file labeled Samantha Holder. “Except for getting in bar fights and receiving verbal reprimands, Samantha didn’t seem to have a problem with officers. Except,” Wagner turned to the back page, “she had to testify on the court martial of her CO. The major was charged with an article 134 in Iraq.”

  “English,” Arn said. “Speak-a-English.”

  Wagner tapped the paper. “Samantha was called to testify against her Commanding Officer she had been dating while stationed in Kuwait. The military frowns on fraternization. An officer just can’t have relations with enlisted personnel.”

  “I wouldn’t think her commander getting prosecuted for it would cause her to hate officers.”

  “It might if the officer was seeing two other women,” he closed the file, “at the same time. A woman scorned, and all that. At least that’s how my third wife put it when she tossed my clothes out into the yard one night when I came home… late.”

  Arn stood from the picnic table and stretched the kinks out of his legs. “Essentially, we have all four of them potentially hating officers for various reasons enough to want to carry a grudge.”