Hunting the Five Point Killer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “I figured someone as big as you had to have stolen food now and again.” Danny smiled, but it faded when he saw that Arn was serious. “I never did hard time. Honest Injun.” He held up his hand like an anorexic Tonto. “Just county time, years back.”

  “And by the time they figured out you gave them a false name, you were long out of their jurisdiction.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “‘Danny,’” Arn answered. “‘Just Danny.’ And no mention of a last name.”

  “Like I said, how would you know that?”

  Arn stood and stretched. “Because I was a cop for thirty years.”

  Danny rolled off the bean bag chair and his eyes locked on the back door.

  Arn moved to block him. “The operative word is ‘was.’ I got no cause to check on you.”

  Danny eyed him warily before he felt behind himself and eased back into the chair. “Fair enough. But what do you do nowadays, besides scare old men?”

  “I’m retired Metro Denver Homicide. I’m here as a consultant to look into the deaths of three police officers ten years ago.”

  Danny snapped his fingers. “That’s where I saw your mug, on the television at the library. That television babe Va-Va-Voom Villarreal talked about you.” He stood and tramped around the room. His fuzzy slippers slapped the bare tile floor like a beached seal. “I got a regular celebrity here.” He faced Arn. “But you look better in that picture on TV. And twenty pounds thinner.”

  “It’s an old photo.”

  Danny dropped back into the chair. Plastic stuffing poofed up out of the ripped bean bag covering; tiny white beads flew upward. Some stuck to his gray hair before he flicked them off. “So, you’re going to find out who capped that jerk?”

  “Why does everyone call Butch Spangler a jerk?”

  “He ever arrest you? Well, he did me. And he was way too aggressive for old Danny. Young Danny at the time.” He slapped a hand against his leg. “Hot damn! We’re going to catch a killer.”

  “We?”

  “Sure. With me renovating this place, that’ll give you more time to focus on catching the killer.”

  “Who said anything about renovation?”

  “You going back on our agreement?”

  “We don’t have an agreement. What makes you think I’d let you stay here?”

  “You know how you knew I spent some time in lockup? Well, ol’ Danny’s got street eyes, too. And I read you pretty good. You need someone to work on this place. You can’t hire a construction firm: too expensive on a cop’s retirement. Especially with everything that needs to be done. And I repeat”—Danny tapped Arn’s thumb where he’d hit it with the hammer—“by your stellar performance swinging that hammer today, you don’t have the skills to do it yourself.” He grabbed his pillowcase and unpacked his clothes back into his makeshift dresser. “So, we got a deal here?”

  Arn wanted to turn down Danny’s offer, but the old man must have been clairvoyant. It was true that Arn couldn’t afford to hire a professional to get the work done. His consultant fees from the TV station would all go into materials. And as he massaged his throbbing thumb, which had begun to turn black, he wondered if he was throwing away a lifetime of caution by letting a complete stranger stay in his house. Had Butch also let his guard down that night he was murdered?

  “Oh, what the hell,” he said. “Here’s the deal: I’ll have Capital Lumber drop off a construction dumpster for demolition and ask them to bring along a generator, so you don’t have to steal electricity from the neighbors—”

  “Borrow.”

  Arn ignored him. “You can crash here.”

  “Where’ll you stay?” Danny asked.

  “Well, it’s a place with heat and lights. I’ve got a motel room. And if you’ve made progress by the time I stop around tomorrow, I’ll let you stay here until the work’s finished.”

  Danny smiled and sank back into his bean bag chair, his holey sweatpants conforming to his bony butt. “It’s a deal. But don’t worry about the generator for now. The neighbors got three more days before they come back from Vegas.”

  Six

  Arn dropped the trailer at the curb and started for Little America and a hot shower when his cell rang. “Whoa, Doris. Take a breath. Tell me slowly.”

  “I tried to call you.”

  “My phone’s been in my car. What’s wrong?”

  “That man called for Ana Maria again,” Doris wheezed, “just after she left for the day. He said if she wanted to know who murdered Butch Spangler to meet him at the Archer Fairgrounds. By the stables.”

  “There’s nothing going on there this time of year except a horse show. And they don’t go into the night.”

  “That’s what makes me so scared.”

  Arn hung up and tromped the foot feed, the 4-4-2 fishtailing along the street. By the time he reached I-80, he was sliding seventy in the snow. At the on-ramp, he nearly slid off the road before he managed to get the car under control just before entering the eastbound lane.

  The ten miles to the fairgrounds seemed to take a lifetime. Arn slid sideways when he took the Archer off-ramp, and he killed his headlights. The half-moon reflected just enough light off the new snow to navigate, and he slowed to an idle as he entered the park. Deserted. No signs of anyone. Including Ana Maria’s car.

  He stopped and turned off his car. He rolled his window down and stuck his head out the window. The wind blew the snow in stiff eddies that pelted his face as he strained to hear …

  A scraping … hard … metal perhaps against pavement, rising on the wind, coming from the far side of a barn fifty yards in front of him.

  Arn squinted while his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he finally made out a Volkswagen Beetle parked in front of the barn. Someone moved inside the car.

  Ana Maria opened the car door, her face framed by the dome light for the briefest moment before she stepped out and closed it. Arn cupped his hand to his mouth to yell when he froze, words trapped between his hand and his racing heart.

  Movement off to Ana Maria’s right. A white-garbed form blended with the snow. It moved between the barn and Ana Maria’s car, quietly advancing on her.

  Arn jumped out of his car and walked quickly toward her. The figure continued to advance, nearing her, closing to grabbing range. Arn broke into a run, as much as a fifty-five-year-old man can run. He slipped and silently cursed his cowboy boots, which were more at home on the back of a horse than running on slick ice.

  Ana Maria turned toward Arn.

  “Get in your car!” Arn yelled, huffing, his side burning from a stitch as he ran.

  The figure stopped mid-stride, ten yards from Ana Maria, and seemed to be thinking his next move.

  “Get in and lock your doors!”

  “What?”

  “That.” Arn jabbed the air in the direction of the man, and Ana Maria’s head snapped in the direction of the figure. The yard light over the office reflected off a long blade held at the man’s side.

  “Get the hell inside your car!”

  Ana Maria flung herself inside and clawed at the door locks.

  The man ducked inside the barn just as Arn reached Ana Maria’s car. “I’m all right,” she said. “Go!”

  Arn grabbed his aching side and ran, half bent over like a big, blond Quasimodo. He reached the open barn door, breathing hard, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. He groped for the snubbie .38 in his pocket, took a final deep, calming breath, and buttonhooked into the barn.

  Here inside, all light was captured at the entryway, and the farther inside Arn walked, the darker it became. When he’d worked as a street cop, his eyes had adjusted quickly, his night vision saving him more than once. He squatted in the barn and waited for his night eyes to develop. He was kneeling in a narrow alleyway, stalls on either side. A horse chomped on
hay or alfalfa. Another whinnied as if it welcomed him, the pungent odor of horse dung telling Arn they’d been stabled since the horse show ended for the day.

  A snort. A stomped hoof off to his right. How many times had he hunted someone who needed hunting, needed taken off the street, sometime with the help of a K-9 officer? Except this time he had something better than a dog: he had a nervous horse to alert him to where Ana Maria’s would-be attacker was. In the horse’s own way.

  A fabric brushed against the side of a stall farther inside, sounding louder in the frigid night air than it should have. Arn wiped his sweaty hand on his jeans and clutched the gun tighter as he inched his way along the stall. He stayed away from the side, careful not to brush the stall like the man he hunted had just done. Step and stop. Listen. Step and stop. Cock an ear, strain to hear.

  The horse stopped snorting.

  The man was gone.

  Arn walked to the opposite end of the barn and peeked around the door.

  Nothing. The man had made it out, and a terrible thought crossed Arn’s mind.

  He ran outside and around the barn toward Ana Maria’s car. She sat behind the wheel, engine running and lights on. An expression of relief came over her as she watched Arn approach. She unlocked her car door and he jumped in.

  “You scared me to death. What was that all about?”

  “Didn’t you see him?” Arn asked.

  “I saw the guy I was here to meet walk out of the shadows. And now you scared him off. So much for finding out who killed Butch Spangler.”

  “The man had a knife, and—”

  “No kidding? This is Wyoming. Everyone carries a knife.”

  Arn leaned his head back on the head rest. “Tell me about this guy you were supposed to meet. He give a name?”

  “No. He called the station right when I left. He knew who killed Butch. I heard it in his voice. And he was going to tell me. Now he’s not.”

  Arn took in gulps of air, his side still aching. “I don’t want you to meet anyone alone until this is over.”

  Ana Maria turned in her seat. “Maybe you forget, but I’ve been doing investigative reporting for some years now. I think I can take care of myself. What I don’t need is you to butt in when I got a witness that’s willing to come forth.” She rested her hand on Arn’s forearm. “I know you just want to protect me. I’ll be fine.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got to run home. I recorded tonight’s installment and I want to see how it went.”

  “With you,” Arn said, “it always goes well.”

  “Well, it might not go any further without that witness talking to me.”

  “Sorry. But your safety comes first.”

  “I won’t even dignify that.” Ana Maria clicked her seat belt. “We still on to go over reports tomorrow?”

  Arn nodded. “Drop me off at my car?”

  “The one I heard the exhaust and the noisy tappets from a block before I saw you pull up?” she asked as she idled toward his 4-4-2.

  “The same old Beast I had when you were in Denver.”

  Ana Maria stopped beside Arn’s car. “Bring the Beast by the house this weekend and I’ll adjust those lifters. And maybe do something about that obnoxious exhaust.”

  Arn waited until Ana Maria drove out of the complex before he turned his attention back to the barn.

  Seven

  Ana Maria just stares out her windshield like she expects me to mosey up and hop in her VW. Tell her who killed Butch Spangler. But I never intended to do that. What I wanted to do was put a scare into her. Make her stop her television special and let me get back to my life. But do I really want her to stop or not, drawing attention to killings that were out of my control ten years ago?

  She lights a cigarette, her face momentarily illuminated by the glow of the Zippo. A frightened face, wild-eyed staring out the window into the darkness, fearful of someone she will only know as the Five Point Killer. And I notice I have begun to tremble myself, not from the cold, but from anticipation of the delightful fear in her eyes up close.

  As I approach her, I slide my knife from the sheath that rides on the small of my back and lay it beside my leg. She looks away. I steady my shaking hand as I approach her, ready to bring the knife out at just the right time, flick a piece of flesh from her lovely cheek, hear her screams. And her disbelief as I melt back into the night. My warning complete: stop the television special and let me live my comfortable life in peace.

  She glances my direction and I freeze, an immobile white sheet that blends in with the snow. After a moment, she looks in the opposite direction, and I take another step toward her car when …

  Loud exhaust approaches off the interstate. Someone pulls into the complex. I squint and see an old car idling toward us. Right off I make the driver as a cop: He doused his lights before he pulls into the fairgrounds and uses his emergency brake to stop—no brake lights. A cop. Or, as I see when he pulls to a stop, that Metro Homicide detective the television station hired to find me.

  Ana Maria slips from behind the wheel and turns in Anderson’s direction.

  I inch toward her, using her car to shield me from him when—

  “Get in your car!” he yells at her.

  I freeze mid-stride. He’s out of his car. He spots me. I look about the deserted fairgrounds. The empty barn I waited in is thirty yards away. I turn back just as he yells at Ana Maria again.

  “Get in and lock your doors!”

  “What?”

  “That.” He jabs the air. Ana Maria’s head snaps in my direction, and I pull the white hood tight around my face.

  “Get the hell inside your car!”

  Ana Maria throws herself inside her car. The glow of her cigarette still illuminates her face as she hits the door locks.

  The cop comes on a dead run. But even though I wear hospital booties over my shoes, I run faster. I reach the safety of the barn in time to strip the sheet off me. It exposes black pants and sweater and ski mask, the perfect garb for hiding in a pitch-black building.

  The detective’s wheezing precedes him, and I squat down. The doorway momentarily frames him. But for only a moment, as he ducks inside. A cop. Used to entering buildings after bad guys, keeping out of—what was that term they used?—the fateful funnel.

  I risk a peek up over a wood railing and narrowly avoid a hoof thrown my way from a big bay gelding. The cop walks slowly, checking each stall on the far side of the barn, and I wait my chance to sneak out the other way. I duck-walk and he freezes. He stares in my direction. My sheet has brushed against the side of the stall, loud in this cold air, and gave my location away.

  He starts toward me.

  I duck-walk faster toward the opposite end and keep stalls between us. As I reach the open end of the barn, I buttonhook the door just as he clears the stalls. He walks my way. Slowly, deliberately, his hand thrust out. I have no doubt it holds a gun. And no doubt he will use it. That excitement rushes over me again, and I pause: do I wait in the shadows and prove that you can bring a knife to a gun fight and win? Or do I silently slip away in the darkness?

  I need Ana Maria to get the message to drop her TV special. But I cannot get to her, and the cop is mere paces behind me. He’ll emerge from the barn at any moment. He’ll see my black form stark against the backdrop of fresh snow. But she needs a warning. I really don’t want my life interrupted.

  I shuffle across the lot. Ana Maria stares at the barn where the cop disappeared, looking away from me. I reach his car and fumble in my pocket for a souvenir. A warning. I toss it through his open driver’s window onto his seat before I run cross country to the safety of my hidden car.

  Eight

  Arn grabbed a flashlight from his glove box and retraced where he’d seen the man disappear inside the barn. In the dust and horse droppings on the barn floor, indistinct footprints showed where he’d stood again
st a stall. For how long? Had he watched Arn approach, or had he waited until the blackness swallowed Arn up before sneaking out the opposite door?

  A chestnut mare hung her head over the top rail of the stall as if to say hello, and Arn cradled her head in his arm as he stroked her head. “Where the hell did that guy run to?” The horse nickered her reply—which was no help at all to Arn—and he left her to resume munching hay.

  He bent and ran his hand over the marks in the snow and dust: faint and indistinct. He could tell nothing from the footprints, except their direction toward the open opposite end of the barn. As if the man wore no shoes at all.

  He stood, his back popping, and played his light around inside. Light reflected off something white against one wall. A strip of sheet, perhaps six inches square, hung on a protruding nail that had snagged it.

  Arn snatched it from the nail: It looked like any other sheet he’d ever seen. Except it was from the sheet Ana Maria’s stalker had worn when Arn first spotted him outside, nearly blending in with the snow. The stalker was no dummy: he’d stripped off the white sheet after entering the darkened barn.

  Arn slipped the patch of sheet carefully inside his jacket pocket. The smallest shred of evidence often was the piece he needed to complete the puzzle. He started out the back end of the barn when he caught a whiff of some overpowering odor. Horse liniment? Cologne, perhaps? Then it was gone, as quickly as the wind had blown it past his nose.

  He hobbled away from the barn and followed the indistinct tracks in the snow. No tread pattern. Nothing sharp enough to indicate the shoe size or type. But the shuffling in the snow headed directly for his own car.

  Arn approached his car from the blind side, the trunk side, leading with his gun. He crouched under the driver’s window. When he stood, he turned on his flashlight and shone it inside the car. He breathed deeply when he saw no one and slipped his revolver back into his coat pocket.