Hunting the VA Slayer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Beth paused from her knitting and looked at Arn. “Good looking boy. He always looked younger than he was, just like his sister. Good genes, I always figured ’cause Bo held his age well. But anything distinguishing?” she shrugged. “Brown eyes. Brown hair. Heavy set, though he might have lost his baby fat by now.”

  “You mentioned he was close to your daughter.”

  “Was,” Beth said. “Some years after we moved here, Jenifer thought that she’d like to meet up with her brother and see how he turned out. But after I told her some stories about her father—and how Pudgy was just like Bo—she came to her senses. But then, Jenifer always was smart. Always was too sharp for her own good. And in case you’re wondering, I don’t have any pictures of Jen, either.”

  Arn remained quiet as he often did. He found folks often told him things in their own time. Their own way. He remained silent long enough for her to say, “And I see you’re wondering why I have no pictures of my children.”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “As it would cross Pudgy’s, if he ever found me.” Beth picked up her needles again and looked at them for a moment. When Bo kicked us out of the house, he wouldn’t let us take anything except that change of clothes. Certainly nothing sentimental like photos.”

  “And after you moved to Seattle?”

  “I always was afraid that Pudgy would find me one day. And when he did, he would demand to know about his sister. I couldn’t chance that he would find her. So I never kept any photos of her, even though she’d come home with a photo pack from school every year. Shame, a beautiful girl like that never even had a chance to date in school. Participate in sports.” Beth leaned closer. “You think that was wrong, Mr. Anderson—keeping Jen so close to home so that her crazy brother wouldn’t spot her if he managed to find us?”

  Arn looked at Beth and thought how she was just as crazy as Bo and Pudgy, denying her daughter some of the life seasonings that young girl should encounter. It was, he finally concluded, what fear did to a body. “What became of Jenifer?”

  Beth smiled wide. “Army. She grew up a tomboy so I suppose the Army suited her just fine. I was always so worried that her and Pudgy would run into one another someplace, but they never did. She did her twenty years and retired.” Beth jabbed the air with her needles. “But, there is no need to know where she is. If you find her, Pudgy can find her. Just be satisfied that she is doing good in life without knowing anything about Pudgy that will help you.”

  45

  ARN SOMEHOW ENDURED THE RIDE back to Seattle to catch his flight with only one big bug stuck under his collar. When Sven dropped him off at the United terminal, he said, “you still have five hours before your flight leaves,” he winked. “I know where we could hook up with a couple babes.”

  Arn shook his head and thanked the old man for the offer. And for the trip to Olympia. “I can get a lot done over my phone while I wait for my flight.”

  “Suit yourself,” Sven said as he swung his leg over the bike. He situated his pillow with the hole in it under his butt and settled down. “I’d say see you next time, but—at your age—there might not be a next time,” and he roared off.

  Arn entered the airport and made his way to the food court. He grabbed a Big Mac and

  fries and picked a spot in the corner away from others and flipped open his phone. Ana Maria picked up on the first ring. “Tell me Beth was helpful?”

  “Reluctantly at first,” Arn said. “But she gave me Pudgy’s name—Allen Randall. I need you to get with Sgt. Wagner. If he can cross reference that name with the Sheridan enlistment records, we can get a photo to pass around. Maybe we’ll get lucky and Pudgy will be in the surveillance videos.”

  “Can’t do that,” Ana Maria said. “I’m off to the library to interview Ethan Ames. You’ll have to call Wagner yourself.”

  “Thought you were interviewing him in his office?”

  “He said there’s some construction started yesterday that’s so noisy we couldn’t hear one another. I didn’t want to go… just any place. The library has enough people around…”

  Arn understood. Ana Maria was thinking self-preservation now, picking a meeting place with enough people that—if Doc or Jonah came near—she would have help. Or at least witnesses. “Keep me posted if you hear anything about Jonah or Doc. And watch your backside.”

  Ana Maria hesitated. “I will.”

  Arn detected something in Ana Maria’s voice that he had grown to recognize as concern. “What problems have you had since I’ve been gone?”

  “None.”

  “Bull,” Arn said. “Is it Doc Henry?”

  “Doc Henry and Jonah Barb,” she said at last. “Oblanski still has had no luck finding either one. Danny woke up last thinking he heard someone at the front door and called the police, but they found no one. I gotta run and make a call before I meet with Ethan.”

  “Call who?”

  “Mary Ann from up in Custer,” Ana Maria said. “She says she just remembered some things she forgot before. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Arn stuck his last fry into the tiny catchup cup as Gorilla Legs answered the phone. Arn could only describe her phone manners as a growl until, he identified himself. “Mr. Anderson,” she said, softening her voice. If that were even possible. “Whatever can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to speak with Chief Oblanski.”

  “He’s in an important meeting,” she said, “but I am certain he will wish to take your call. One moment.”

  Willie Nelson sang with Ray Charles softly in the phone until Chief Oblanski came online. “Did you learn anything from Beth Randall?” he asked.

  Arn explained that Beth had told him Pudgy’s proper name. “I had no luck calling Wagner. If you get hold of him, ask him to research Allen Randall’s enlistment records. If we can find a photo of Pudgy—.”

  “You might be barking up the wrong tree there, pard’ner, if you’re still thinking this Pudgy might be your suspect.”

  “How so?”

  “Officers took a report this morning from Gold’s Gym. Winger had his truck broken into and a whole toolbox stolen right there in the parking lot.”

  “How does that change the fact that Pudgy floated to the top of my suspect list?”

  “I’ll tell you how,” Oblanski said. “Winger’s tools were engraved by a marking pen so he could identify them. Engraved S. H.”

  Samantha Holder’s name popped into Arn’s mind until Oblanski said., “It’s for Winger’s name,” and Arn felt his heart sink. All this time, he had suspected Samantha of coldcocking him the night they were to meet, wielding a Craftsman wrench with her initials engraved. “Were they Craftsman?”

  “They were,” Oblanski said. “S. H. Steven Hayes. I got one call into Wagner already trying to locate Winger. He’s got a meeting with Mike the Mauler when we find him. Now I have to run. I’m riding out with the deputies to meet with DCI. Some rancher found a dead body stuffed in his culvert.”

  Arn thought back to Bulldog. Had Danny brought in another of his old A.I.M. buddies to… talk with Doc Henry? If it was, Doc was becoming bolder. Less cautious in his killings. More likely now than he was when he worked an honest job to make his move on Ana Maria.

  Arn dialed Ana Maria’s number. It went straight to voice mail and he called Danny. He answered the phone out of breath. “I hate to admit it, but it’s hard for this old man to hang a twelve-foot sheet of drywall on the ceiling without help.”

  “Then take a break,” Arn said. He tossed the empty McDonald’s sack in the trash and talked as he walked. “I need you to get a message to Ana Maria.”

  “Why not call her?”

  “Because by now she’s turned her ringer off while she conducted her interview with Ethan at the library.” He told Danny about another dead body Oblanski was headed to. “You didn’t con one of your other A.I.M.
pards into trying to take out Doc Henry?”

  “I didn’t con Bulldog—.”

  “Just tell me,” Arn pressed.

  “No,” Danny said.

  “Then it’s all the more reason she’s alerted. Just go on over there—.”

  “Now you’re authorizing me to take the truck?”

  “This is more important than you getting a ticket for no DL. Just slip her a note under the door at the library room’s she’s at telling her Doc’s about his work again, and suggest she get a police escort home.”

  “She’s not gonna like you doting over her like this—.”

  “Just do it,” Arn said. “Her safety might depend on it.”

  “Ok,” Danny said. “I’ll clean up real quick and drive on over.”

  —

  Arn did his best not to worry about Ana Maria. He watched intently as men and women, families and single yuppies, walked—some ran—past him on their way to flights. Or missed flights altogether. Still, his thoughts returned to Ana Maria and the can of worms she might have opened with her coverage of the RSL and the veterans’ deaths. Since the years that Arn had known her, Ana Maria had developed a sense of where danger lurked. She had avoided many circumstances in her reporting that might have had disastrous consequences for others less astute. But he’d also known her to throw caution to the stiff Wyoming wind when she thought a hot story was to be had.

  He watched in amusement the people walking by and thought there were just too many variables that he couldn’t get a grip on with these deaths. Jonah had been at the top of his suspect list with his radical zealots protesting at most of the VA facilities where the deaths had occurred

  He had analyzed Samantha, also at VA centers, also traveling the area. But with Kane’s man finding her tools were just as she claimed—Snap-On—she had slid down the suspect list and slid down even farther when Oblanski’s officer took a report from Winger—aka Steven Hayes—of his tools of the brand that the attacker used against Arn.

  And Pudgy. Allen Randall. Before his trip to interview Beth, Pudgy had been on the fringe—a weak enough suspect to be overshadowed by others—strong enough as a suspect to warrant Arn flying to Seattle and talking with Beth. Father Knows Best, Arn thought of the old television show. But in this case, Mother Knows Best. If Beth thought her son capable of murder, her instinct had told her what Pudgy might be capable of. Once Wagner obtained a photo of Allen Pudgy Randall and shared it with Kane to show to witnesses and compare with surveillance footage, Arn might have his killer.

  Or not.

  And amid all this was Doc Henry. There was no indication that he had anything to do with the deaths. Bulldog’s murder—more than likely—but not the veterans’ deaths. Doc wasn’t about killing and terrorizing strange men. He was about killing and terrorizing women, and for now, it seemed his obsession with Ana Maria had brought him to town.

  As Arn thought, he didn’t know who he feared most going after Ana Maria—Doc Henry for his years of hatred, or Jonah Barb to silence her from exposing his RSL group. Danny called. “She wasn’t at the library,” he said. “She met with a nice-looking guy I’m guessing is Ethan Ames. They visited in a side room for over an hour and she left afterward.”

  “With him?”

  “No. The librarian says Ana Maria left a few minutes before the guy did. He hung around looking at psychology books for sale in the book room before leaving. I tried calling her phone, but she must have forgotten to put the ringer back on.”

  “Dammit,” Arn said, “I told her a dozen times it’s not safe for her to keep her ringer off.”

  “She’ll probably be home soon,” Danny said. “She knows I’m making her favorite tonight—Welsh Rarebit.”

  “Ok,” Arn said. “Take side streets home. Last thing you need is a ticket.”

  “You know it,” Danny said and hung up.

  46

  ARN TRIED DOZING. HE DRAPED his hat over his eyes and, about the time that he actually thought he’d catch a nap, some urchin would run screaming by with the mom screaming even louder in hot pursuit. So when his phone vibrated in his pocket, he was fully awake as he flipped it open.

  “Arn?” Ana Maria said, her voice strangely calm. Quiet. As if she were fighting to remain so. “You need to come back to Cheyenne.”

  “I’m waiting for my flight now.” He checked his watch. “If it’s not delayed, it leaves here in a little over three hours. Back in Cheyenne in six unless the Denver traffic’s too nasty.”

  “I do not have six hours.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t have six hours? You know I’m headed home, and you ought to be, too, if you want Danny’s Welsh—.”

  “Arn!” And Maria snapped. “I’m telling you, in six hours I will be dead. Unless you get here in three.”

  Arn’s gut churned as he recognized that voice, that angry yet pleading voice. Ana Maria needed help. And Arn was the only one to help her. “Ok,” Arn said. “Breathe deeply and tell me with a yes or no—are you in danger right this instant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is someone holding you against your will?”

  Yes.”

  “Are you in a position to tell me who?

  There was a long pause and muffled voices over the phone before Ana Maria came back on, “not if I want to live through this night.”

  “Ok. Ok,” Arn said, thinking quickly. “I’ll charter a flight. Will that get me back in time?”

  Muffled voices once again, and Arn could only imagine what condition Ana Maria was in right this moment. “Leave Seattle. Now. Talk with no one,” muted voices. “Take no detours anywhere. Come straight to Cheyenne.”

  “Where?”

  “When you arrive, call my phone number,” Ana Maria said. “You will be told where to come. And Arn,” she started sobbing, “do not deviate from your instructions,” and the phone disconnected.

  Arn grabbed his travel bag and ran to the information counter. He got directions to Business Air and ran across the terminal, stopping at the first kiosk he encountered. “I need to charter a flight.”

  The woman behind the counter leaned over and looked at a planner. “Where to?”

  “Cheyenne, Wyoming.”

  “Oh my,” she said. “That’s a loooong way off. That will be pricy.” She flipped a page. “And just when do you wish to fly out?”

  “Now.”

  She grinned wide as she grabbed a phone and punched in numbers. “That will be expensive, indeed.”

  —

  Arn didn’t even know Honda made an airplane, let alone one that it flew above forty-thousand feet according to the pilot who seemed fascinated that someone would spend two-thousand dollars for a charter flight to someplace as remote as Wyoming. “There’s cocktails in the fridge,” the pilot called back and she laughed. “With what you’re paying the company, we can afford for you to get knee-walking drunk at our expense.”

  “I’d just like some quiet time to think,” he said and left the drink mixers alone while he dialed Oblanski’s number. “I was just going to call you,” the chief said, “and tell you about that croaker the rancher found in his culvert.”

  “Tell me later,” Arn said, and hurriedly told Oblanski about his phone call from Ana Maria.

  “She gave no hint as to who was holding her?”

  “I got the distinct impression she was being monitored very closely. I shudder to think what would have happened if she said more than she was allowed.”

  “I’ll put out a BOLO for her car—.”

  “Danny said her car was still parked at the library.”

  “Shit,” Oblanski said. A beat. “Here’s my plan—since you were warned not to contact the police, I’m going to call in every officer we have. Plainclothes. We only have a limited number of unmarked cars, but I’ll authorize mileage for those who drive their ow
n. I don’t know just what to look for, and I’m relying on the experience of my officers to see when something is out of place that might lead us to her.”

  Arn checked his watch. The library had been closed for a couple hours. “Can you send a man over to talk with the librarian who saw Ana Maria there earlier? See if anyone followed her out to her car. And it might be a long shot, but could you send a TTY Denver Airport Police and ask them to run down Ethan Ames. He should just about be boarding his redeye for D. C. about now. He might remember something. Anything that he recalls from his interview with Ana Maria earlier.”

  “That I can do just as soon as we hang up,” Oblanski said. “Think hard now, and tell me who you think took her?”

  “Doc Henry would be at the very top of my list. I can see him taking her as a hostage to get me alone. I’d say he hates Ana Maria and me equally.”

  “I had a bad feeling about her broadcasts,” Oblanski said. “I was afraid she’d stir up a hornet’s nest with all that talk about the veterans’ murders.”

  “Don’t forget the RSL,” Arn said. “Jonah Barb would be right under Doc on my suspect list. The way he’s been sending her threatening emails. The dead cats. The slashed tires—.”

  “He’s at the bottom of my list.”

  “The bottom? That man is about as snaky as they come.”

  “That man is about as dead as they come,” Oblanski said, and Arn thought he heard the chief chuckle. “Colonel Barb was that body the rancher found in his culvert. The coroner thinks Jonah has been dead more than a week.”

  “That’s impossible,” Arn said. “He was emailing Ana Maria all this time.”.

  “Unless he wasn’t the one sending the email,” Oblanski said. “Unless someone else sent them.”

  “Doc Henry,” Arn breathed, and mentally kicked himself in the keister. When Doc was actively luring unsuspecting women to their deaths in Colorado, he was not caught because of his profile origins on dating networks. The computer forensics officers never linked Doc to any of the victims, he hid his activities so well. It was old fashioned police work—and luck that Ana Maria acquired a cell phone to call Arn—that had solved the case and saved her. Even after Doc was caught, there was never any computer footprint to connect him to the other victims. “Was there by any chance a white rose atop the corpse?”