Hunting the Five Point Killer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Lot of guys getting on in age have a hard time,” Ana Maria said, a twinkle in her eye. “Some guys buy sports cars. New clothes out of their generation. Some even buy goofy purses and pass them off as man bags.” She winked at Arn.

  “That was Dad. Living a midlife crisis in his own way.” Pieter pinched his nose between his fingers and closed his eyes. “I’ve thought of that night a hundred times. That if I’d have come down the stairs a few moments sooner, I might have scared the killer off. Or he would have drilled me.” He opened his eyes and leaned closer. “Aunt Georgia says sometimes God spares us for something better. What do you think, Mr. Anderson?”

  “I’ve known people who—for no logical reason—lived through some terrible trauma. It’s how we handle it once we’re spared that molds us. And your aunt says you’ve made the most of your life since then.”

  “I’ve tried, Mr. Anderson.” Pieter stood and walked around the room. He looked up at exposed roughhewn timbers most old Western houses were built with. He ran his hand over a rafter and it caught on a splinter. He jerked his hand away and stuck his finger between his teeth to pull the sliver out. “I called Aunt Georgia right away that night. I knew Dad was dead—Lord knows he took me to enough crime scenes. I could spot a dead person a block away.”

  “Why didn’t you call 911?” Ana Maria asked. She sat on the chair beside Arn, the two huddled together around the space heater looking like they were watching some Grade B movie.

  “Dad had serious words with other cops over the years, so I didn’t trust them. I just didn’t know who else to call except Aunt Georgia.”

  Ana Maria flipped through her notes. “The police report said she called 911 at 1:45 a.m.”

  Pieter nodded. “She lived fifteen minutes across town. When I got down to Dad that night, I recall that the big Felix the Cat clock’s tail ticked off 1:30.” He pulled his trouser cuffs over his wingtips. “Are you going to find Dad’s killer?”

  “When I worked Metro,” Arn said, “I solved every homicide assigned me.”

  Pieter took a deep breath. “All right, then. What else can I tell you? After the police left that night, I went with Aunt Georgia, and I didn’t leave her house until I went off to college.”

  “Where was Hannah all that time?”

  “Where Mom always was—getting hammered in a bar and getting laid … ” He turned to Ana Maria. “No offense.”

  She waved it away, and Pieter continued.

  “Mom came home while the police were conducting their investigation. Aunt Georgia told her she was taking me to her place for the night. Mom never objected. Never came around to bring me home the next day. Or any day. She just didn’t care. And when I went to her funeral the following year, I couldn’t even bring myself to show any grief. That’s cold, I know.”

  Pieter stood and walked the room. He eyed the old rafters exposed after Danny tore plaster down, old wiring frayed from age and rats, the old hardwood floor made squishy from moisture. He turned to Ana Maria. “Do you really think your TV special will yield any new evidence?”

  “I’m optimistic. Already we’ve gotten calls in on the tip line,” she said. Then: “Who do you think killed your dad?”

  “Frank Dull Knife,” Pieter answered immediately. “I’ve always thought that. It was just too convenient, him having an affair with Mom, and his court hearing scheduled the week after Dad was murdered, with Dad the only witness.”

  Arn thought so too. In Butch’s file were the interviews Billy Madden and Ned Oblanski conducted on Frank. Along with Frank’s rap sheet: two stints in the Wyoming state penitentiary in Rawlins, a dozen local lockups around the country for petty crimes. Frank had been around the horn. He would have known the police would zero in on him for Butch’s murder, and he would have had his lies together.

  “You ever run into Frank?” Arn asked.

  Pieter smiled wickedly. “In Kmart once. He saw me two aisles down and promptly beat feet the other way. I slinked around and came face-to-ugly-face with him. I didn’t say a thing to him. Didn’t need to. The look of terror that crossed his face was priceless.” Pieter hit an exposed rafter. Blood trickled from a lacerated knuckle, but he paid it no mind. “I thought many times about hunting him up. Making him pay for killing Dad. But as satisfying as it would be, it would only hurt Aunt Georgia if I was in prison. No, someday he’ll be linked to it.” He smiled at Ana Maria. “Maybe this TV special of yours will be his downfall.”

  “Johnny White thinks the Five Point Killer murdered Butch,” Arn said.

  Pieter’s jaw muscles worked overtime, and his teeth clenched. “All Dad ever talked about was those cases. He was obsessed with them. ‘I’m so close I can smell him,’ Dad told me before he died. ‘All I got to do is match some pieces of the puzzle.’ But we know he didn’t have time to match anything.”

  “It’s the only case that linked all three officers,” Arn said.

  Pieter leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. “I hung with Steve and Gaylord later on, when Dad was working and I got old enough to care for myself. They talked about the Five Point cases now and again, but not to the extent Dad did.” Pieter looked to the ceiling. “God, I wish I hadn’t.”

  “Hadn’t what?”

  “Hung with Steve and Gaylord. I got to be the ultimate jinx. First Steve passed out with a cigarette and died—”

  “Fire marshal’s report ruled it accidental,” Arn said. “So did Butch’s incident report.”

  Pieter looked away, and Arn thought he saw a tear form at the corner of his eye. “Steve was like an uncle to me. Good man.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “And Gaylord was like a crazy older brother.”

  “One that trusses himself up and whips his willy to a porn mag,” Ana Maria added.

  Arn and Pieter looked in amazement at Ana Maria.

  “No offense.” She smiled.

  “Gaylord’s death wasn’t your fault either,” Arn said.

  “I told myself that.” Pieter stood and brushed drywall dust off his trousers. “Thanks for listening to my ranting, Mr. Anderson. And Ms. Villarreal.” He smiled at her. “If you think you need a man’s perspective for your story, drop by my office. Or over dinner.”

  Pieter started for the entryway. He passed the front room and the staircase that led to the second floor. As he grabbed the stair railing, it pulled away from the wall.

  “I’ve got to fix that,” Arn said.

  Pieter looked around. “Among other things.”

  Arn held the door for him. Pieter paused on the porch to wrap a scarf around his neck. “And if you need any help making your way through the maze of municipal codes on your remodel, feel free to ask.” He slapped the side of the house and grinned. “Someday I’ll have time to restore my old houses. But for now, I’ll have to admire those who do.”

  Ana Maria and Arn waited until Pieter had pulled away from the curb before going back inside. “Something’s bothering you,” Ana Maria said.

  “Does it show?”

  “You didn’t take a solitary note all the time talking with Pieter.”

  “I wanted to … observe, as we talked,” Arn said.

  “And what did you observe?”

  “What did you observe?” Arn asked.

  Ana Maria led him into the kitchen and poured more coffee. “He hit on me.”

  “Is that surprising? Men often hit on you.”

  “Besides me being just a little old for him, he had a promise ring on one finger.”

  “Guess I missed that,” Arn said. “But then, I have no idea what a promise ring is.”

  “He’s spoken for.”

  “Ah. And nothing else?”

  Ana Maria laid a piece of cardboard on the cold metal folding chair before she sat. “What are you getting at?”

  “Frank. Pieter’s not as convinced Frank killed Butc
h as he lets on. If the prime suspect in your father’s death lived in your town, how long would it be before you found a way to, say, kill him in a staged self-defense?”

  “About a week … ”

  Arn sipped his coffee, oblivious to Ana Maria. “What did you say?”

  “I said, there’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Arn studied the hot steam rising from his coffee cup. “How did you know where my mother’s house was located?”

  “How? That’s a silly question. You gave me the address yesterday when you said to meet you here.”

  “But I didn’t tell Pieter. Or Georgia.”

  “Why’s that so important?”

  “By Pieter’s own statement, he’d asked the assessor’s office about the place, but they wouldn’t tell him anything,” Arn said. “A search of county land records would also show the owner of this place as anonymous.”

  “So?

  “So how did he find out where I’d be?”

  Twelve

  When Ned Oblanski wasn’t in his office the following morning like he promised, Michelle smiled knowingly. And lied like a good secretary does to protect her boss. “Lieutenant Oblanski unexpectedly had to go out to the shooting range for qualification.” She began writing directions on a notepad when Arn stopped her.

  “I know the area well.” As a youngster, he’d hired out to the Rocking W spread just west of where the police shooting range now stood. His horse had thrown him in a rattler-infested pasture at the ranch, breaking his ankle and sidelining him for the summer. “I think I can find it.”

  He drove west of town on Happy Jack, past the windmills with their slowly turning blades, and finally spotted the black range flag at the entrance to the police range. Past the gate, he followed a dirt road another quarter mile before crossing the security fence.

  As he drove by the long-range benches, an officer touched off his sniper rifle and Arn jumped. He stopped his car and hastily wadded up a Burger King napkin from his glove box. He stuffed it in his ears before continuing to the pistol deck.

  He parked at the classroom beside two unmarked police cars. Oblanski faced a row of turning targets on the firing line, while another officer stood beside him holding a stop watch. When the targets turned, Oblanski pulled his coat back with one hand and drew his gun with the other, the whole effect efficient. Smooth. His two shots sounded as one, and he holstered just as smoothly. Oblanski did this twice more, each time quicker than the last. Arn counted to himself: on his best day as a young officer, he was never as good as Oblanski. But then, he reasoned, he’d always made up for it by his superior tactics. Like any good hunter.

  Oblanski waited until the range officer marked his score on a clipboard before squaring up to the targets once more. This time when the range officer called out, Oblanski dropped to one knee and drew a gun from an ankle holster. He fired nearly as fast as with his duty gun. Quicker from an ankle rig than Arn had been from a belt holster when he worked the street.

  Holstering his ankle gun, Oblanski spotted Arn leaning against the classroom building. He dipped his head to the range officer and whispered. The range officer took off his ear muffs and headed for a thermos bottle that sat atop a shooting bench at the fifty yard line.

  Oblanski thumbed cartridges into a magazine as he walked toward Arn. “What do you need this time?”

  “We had an appointment.”

  “Gosh. I guess I forgot.” Oblanski grinned. “I must be losing my mind.”

  “Or getting sloppy.” Arn motioned to Oblanski’s trouser leg riding over his ankle holster. He bent and pulled his pant leg over his gun. “I need those files on Gaylord Fournier and Steve DeBoer.”

  Oblanski ignored him and nodded to a uniformed officer who climbed out of his car. “If you want to throw a few rounds, the range officer, Greg Smith, will let you—”

  “Those files?”

  Oblanski walked to a shooting bench and brushed snow off the seat before he sat. He grabbed a range bag and took out cleaning gear. “Chief White was gracious enough to give you Butch Spangler’s file.” He threaded a bore brush into the end of an aluminum rod. “The chief and I feel that the DeBoer and Fournier cases are so unrelated to Butch Spangler’s murder as to be of no use,” he said as he field-stripped his duty gun. “I’d hate to have the surviving families harmed by your … meddling.”

  “But it’s all right for me to look at Frank Dull Knife’s file because you think he killed Butch?”

  “I’m not alone in that opinion.”

  “You’re just pissed ’cause Frank didn’t roll over when you interviewed him.”

  Oblanski seemed not to hear him as he separated the slide and barrel of the Glock .40. He dipped a copper brush into Hoppe’s cleaning solution and ran it down the barrel. “Bobby Madden sent me to Frank’s mechanic shop the morning Butch was killed.” Oblanski held the barrel to the light. “Hannah came home while Bobby and the crime tech were working the scene. She’d been out drinking with Frank that night, but he left a couple hours before the bars closed.”

  “I read in one of the reports that Hannah was dancing with some other guy who was never identified,” Arn said.

  “Bobby interviewed Hannah, but she didn’t give a name. We turned the town upside down, but we never ID’d the guy. But it sure as hell wasn’t Frank Dull Knife.”

  “So you talked with him at his shop that morning?”

  “More like noon when he finally showed up.” Oblanski dribbled a spot of oil on the slide rails before he put the gun back together. “When he finally dragged into his shop it was around midday. Said he was out test-driving a car.”

  “But you didn’t believe him?”

  “Not then, and especially when the car owner filed a complaint against Frank later.” Oblanski grabbed his ankle gun and field-stripped it. “She said when she got her car back from his shop it had a hundred miles on it. That’s some test drive, and I called Frank on it but he wouldn’t come off his story.”

  “I read where Bobby Madden interviewed Frank later that day as well.”

  “Bobby screamed ‘dumb-ass Polack’ at me when I came back empty. ‘I’ll squeeze the information out of Frank myself.’” Oblanski laughed and ran a Q-tip down the magazine well. “Bobby’s interview lasted exactly eight minutes before Frank lawyered up. Now why would a man just out for a hundred-mile test drive need a lawyer?”

  “You must have talked with Pieter Spangler. He thinks Frank is good for Butch’s murder too. But the Five Point Killer is at the top of Johnny White’s suspect list.”

  Oblanski snapped the gun back together and leaned over the bench. “You want to be of some use, pin Butch’s murder on Frank and forget the Five Point cases. That’ll just muddy the waters. You prove Frank killed Butch. That is, if you actually want to do something besides cash an easy paycheck from the television station.”

  Arn picked up Oblanski’s backup gun, a Colt Mustang .380, lighter and flatter than any backup gun Arn had carried when he worked the street. “The murder weapon was never found.”

  “We pulled a search warrant on Frank’s place but came up empty,” Oblanski said. “We figured he drove someplace to ditch the gun.”

  “Might account for those hundred miles on that lady’s car.”

  “That’s what we felt at the time. Especially since he refused to say where he drove to.”

  Arn nodded at Oblanski’s trouser cuff that had ridden back over the empty holster. “Everyone here carry Colts for backups?”

  “No,” Oblanski answered. “Officers carry whatever they can qual with. Never used to be that way.”

  “We used to be closed-mouthed about backup guns,” Arn said. “In case the administration here found out about what we carried.”

  “Same now.” Oblanski laughed. “Now look at me: I am the administration.”

  When Arn worked in Den
ver, most officers carried backup guns. Each weapon was put through a ballistic print; in case multiple guns were used in shootings, the coroner could determine which gun killed the suspect. “Where does Frank live?”

  Oblanski zipped his range bag up. “He still lives by the oil refinery, in a one-room affair in back of that greasy, noisy, ratty, smelly old Quonset he calls a repair shop.”

  Arn started for his car and then paused. “I’ll have to go over your head to get those case files on Gaylord and Steve.”

  “Like how?”

  “The mayor promised the TV station full cooperation. If you and Johnny refuse to hand them over … well, you understand, I got no choice.”

  Spittle flew from Oblanski’s mouth. “There’s no connection—”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. After I read them.”

  Oblanski’s fist slapped his leg, and his jaw clenched as he stopped inches away from Arn. “Don’t screw with me, Anderson. Drop it.”

  “Or you’re going to use that little backup gun on me and toss it away?”

  Oblanski slung his range bag over his shoulder and stomped toward his car. Arn called after him, “We’re not done yet.”

  Oblanski stopped and waited for Arn to catch up. “Now what the hell you want?”

  “Ana Maria Villarreal. I want you to assign a marked unit to check on her at night. With this special she’s airing, I’m afraid for her.”

  “Is it because of the phantom man you chased the other night? Chief White told me about that cockamamie story of yours.”

  “I did chase after someone. Or rather hobble after someone. At least check on Doc Henry’s status.”

  “That’s right. The guy you suspect has been calling Ana Maria.”

  Arn walked around and faced Oblanski. “Doc Henry stalked and raped three women in Denver thirteen years ago. Raped and killed as many as four others, though we never found the bodies. Ana Maria’s coverage helped catch him. But not before he raped her, and nearly killed her before I found the two in a park in Lakewood.”

  “And now you think this Doc Henry’s hunting her?”