Hunting the Five Point Killer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  The other clerk looked younger than Laun as he made a sandwich in slow motion. The oversized rings in his ears reflected the neon lights over the deli.

  Arn got in line, keeping the van in sight. When it was finally Arn’s turn, Laun looked him over. “You buying something?”

  “Not today. I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

  “Hey asshole, keep the line moving.” A trucker wearing a grease-caked stocking cap on the back of his head nudged him. “I said—”

  Arn turned, and there must have been something in his look that stopped the trucker. He backed away a step. “Take your time.”

  “Now what’s this about?” Laun asked.

  “Steve DeBoer.” Arn gave the trucker a last scowl before turning back.

  Laun’s legs buckled, and he leaned against the counter for support. “Can you take over, Worm?”

  “Go ahead,” Worm said, his pierced tongue clicking his teeth as he spoke. “I forgot what went on a ham and cheese anyway.”

  Laun came around the counter and untied his apron. “Is there some place private?”

  Arn motioned to his car, and Laun followed him outside. Arn sandwiched himself behind the wheel. He hit his head on the visor and it tore off. The crumpled prescription fell to the floor, but he left it for now.

  Laun squeezed into the Clown Car. Tall and lanky, he had to duck to enter, and he quickly shut the door. “What a POS,” he said, slapping the rental’s dash. “Is this what I got to look forward to when I dig myself out of that job?”

  “If you work hard and live clean,” Arn said with a smile, “you can get a car just like this one day.”

  “I’ve set my sights a little higher than you might think looking at me.” The man shook out a cigarette and rolled down the window. “Mind?”

  “Go for it.”

  The glow of the cigarette illuminated a face in the dark that wanted to be anywhere besides talking with a stranger about Steve DeBoer. “I’ve been taking night classes at Laramie County Community College the past six years. Working swing shift so I can make class.” Laun exhaled and jerked his thumb at the store. “It’s an all right place to work, but I want more.” He blew smoke through the open window, flicked his butt onto the ground, and rolled his window up. “You want to ask me about that cop that burned to death ten years ago.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I’ve watched Ana Maria Villarreal’s special. I figured it would be just a matter of time before someone came to talk with me. But I already told some little cop years ago all about it, some gay fella.”

  “Detective Gaylord Fournier.”

  “Yeah. Him.” Laun fumbled nervously with his lighter. “The paper said he died of a suicide not too long after Detective DeBoer.”

  Arn didn’t tell him otherwise as he reached in the back seat for his notebook. He flicked the anemic dome light on; Laun’s Zippo cast more light that it did. “You delivered pizza to Detective DeBoer the day before the fire?”

  “I already told that Gaylord guy all this.”

  “Tell it again. Please.”

  Laun flicked open his Zippo and snapped it shut. Flicked it open, and snapped it shut. “The dude was drunker’n hell when I finally found his place.”

  “Finally?” Arn looked at his notes. “Should have been pretty easy to find.”

  “If he would have given the right address. Either he was too drunk to know his own place, or he gave the kid taking the order the wrong one. So I went next door to deliver it, and they steered me to the right house.”

  “You sound pretty sure after all these years.”

  “Wouldn’t you remember,” Laun said, “if the cheap bastard didn’t even give you a tip?”

  Laun didn’t remember anything else significant, and Arn gave him a business card to call if he did.

  After Laun left, Arn struggled with the seat belt, and it got hung up on the steering wheel. He was contorted, trying to free it, when Meander Wells opened the passenger door and leaned in. “Could a nurse come to the rescue?” She unhooked the belt.

  “Thanks.” Arn breathed a sigh.

  “I’ve pictured you in a pickup. Something larger.”

  “Me too,”

  “Pieter said your car got vandalized.” She nodded to the Flying J. “Want tube steak or something?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Tube steak. They got great Coney dogs.”

  “I just ate,” Arn answered, catching sight of the maroon van still in the back lot. The wait would do him good. “But I’d be up for a soda.”

  Meander smiled. “Be my treat. And don’t give me that malarkey about Western man always paying.”

  After she’d paid Worm, they sat in a booth and she brushed crumbs off the seat with a napkin. She opened the paper wrapper and dribbled catsup on the foot-long.

  “I thought Pieter would have sprung for a nice meal rather than make you eat a hot dog,” Arn said.

  “Tube steak,” Meander corrected. “We go out a couple times a week.” She bit into the tube steak. It squeezed out a bit of catsup that fell on the table and she wiped it away. “Like when you saw us the other day. He’s always surprising me at work, taking me to lunch.” Her smile faded. “That was the day Chief White was murdered.” She put her foot-long down and leaned close. “All the nurses are scared to death,” she whispered. “Security guards escort us to the parking garage after shift. And there’s even a guard at the maintenance door now.” She picked her foot-long back up and nibbled a bite. “But the killer’s long gone, isn’t he? We shouldn’t have to worry, should we, Mr. Anderson?”

  Arn sipped his coke. The maroon van was gone from its spot. “I believe the killer went in with the purpose of killing Chief White only. My best guess is he won’t return.”

  “Good.” She looked around. “But you be careful. The ER nurse told me how close you came to dying in that house of Pieter’s. I told him the first thing we’re doing after we’re married is selling off those old houses. He can collect something else from then on.” She finished her foot-long and stood to leave. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Just point me to the nearest pharmacy.”

  Arn left Meander to clean catsup off her top while he walked outside. The van wasn’t where it had parked before, but he knew anyone determined wouldn’t have given up for the hour he was inside the truck stop.

  He pulled out of the parking lot, keeping an eye out for the van as he drove across town. He arrived at Walgreen’s without spotting it, and his hand resting on the gun in his pocket was reassuring.

  He entered the store and walked back to the pharmacy, where he handed his prescription to a white-robed pharmacist. A set of glasses was perched precariously on her long nose, and another set jammed into her beehive hairdo that looked as if she’d varnished it. “Only be a minute, hon.” She disappeared behind the counter.

  Arn walked away from the pharmacy to the window overlooking the parking lot. He cupped his hand to the glass and studied cars coming and going through the lot. But no maroon van.

  He returned to the pharmacy when his name was called over the loudspeaker. “Do you take American money?” he asked when he stepped back to the pharmacy counter.

  The pharmacist got a befuddled look on her face before she realized he was joking. “Of course,” she giggled. She handed him his change and bent to another prescription, then looked up and saw him still standing there. “Is there something else I can give you, hon?”

  “No,” Arn answered. “I was just wondering what the half-life of Xanax is.”

  She fidgeted with the glasses in her hair as she tapped her foot. “Couple hours.”

  “How much would it take to knock someone out?”

  “People don’t take that much.”

  “But if they messed up and accidentally took too much—”


  “I’m telling you, hon, people don’t do that.”

  “Humor me.”

  “How big?”

  “Little guy. About 160.”

  She tapped her foot again, as if calculating the dosage. “Normal dosage is one milligram. Five—crushed up—would put him out for about twenty minutes.” She eyed Arn suspiciously. “You’re not one of those who like to experiment?”

  “At my age,” Arn said as he started for his mini-coffin in the parking lot, “the only drug I experiment with is Geritol and Ex-Lax.”

  He paused outside, scanning the lot and the surrounding street for the van, but didn’t spot it. He climbed into the Clown Car and struggled once again to put his seat belt on. As he turned onto the street from the parking lot, headlights a block back flicked on.

  As Arn drove over the train tracks, the van kept pace with him a block behind. Arn turned at the first light and headed toward the darkened area north of the train tracks. If he were to confront this guy, he needed every advantage.

  He tugged his gun out of his pocket and stuck it between his legs as he unwrapped himself from the seat belt. Then he turned the corner at what used to be the Leapfrog Bar, long closed, long darkened by time. It was here, according to Butch’s reports, that Joey Bent had picked up a man with a slight limp and wearing a hoodie, the only clue Butch could put his finger on for the identity of the Five Point Killer.

  When Arn passed the bar, the van had just turned off the overpass, a block behind him. Arn doused his lights and pulled behind the building. Fresh oil patch laid by city crews peppered the fender of the rental, but Arn had little time to think about the fee he’d pay when he turned the Clown Car in damaged. He used his emergency brake to stop, not wanting to trip his brake lights. He folded himself out of the car and hunkered behind a dumpster, clutching his gun tightly.

  Squatting behind the dumpster, Arn listened to traffic passing by: a truck with loud stacks followed by the unmistakable clatter of an old Volkswagen followed by … the van passing the bar. It drove slowly; then the driver spotted Arn’s rental and slid to a stop. The driver bailed out, playing a flashlight around the shadows, nearing the dumpster. His light illuminated Arn’s tracks in the snow a moment before it was too late.

  Arn’s hand shot out and grabbed the man’s collar, jerking him close. The flashlight dropped to the snow, and Arn jammed his gun barrel against the man’s temple. “Even an old duffer like me couldn’t miss. Who the hell are you?”

  The man trembled but remained mute.

  “My trigger finger is getting mighty cold. It might slip off any moment.”

  “Dan Long,” he sputtered. “Sergeant Dan Long.” His wild eyes were dimly lit by the street light on the next corner.

  “Sergeant of what?”

  “Police Department.”

  Arn relaxed his grip slightly. “Ease your badge wallet out.”

  Long pulled his coat out of the way and grabbed his badge from his belt. He held it to the light so Arn could read his bonafides. Arn released him and lowered his gun, but he didn’t pocket it. “What the hell you following me for?”

  Long stepped away and pulled his coat down over his badge. “Chief Oblanski,” he said, as if that were the entire explanation.

  “I’m waiting for the rest.”

  “The chief is worried you’ll be attacked again.”

  Arn’s hand went to his neck. “You think I’ll drop my guard like I did last night?”

  “I doubt it.” Long blew into his hands to warm them up. “How’d you make my soccer van?”

  “You’d be surprised what I used for surveillance in my day.” But I’d never use something like the Clown Car, Arn thought. “Will you leave me the hell alone now?”

  “And lose all this overtime?”

  “Long … ”

  The sergeant raised his hands. “All right. I’ll tell the chief you refused protection.”

  Arn wanted to tell Long that the best thing that could happen would be for his attacker to come around for a rematch. But he wouldn’t do that if his quarry had a tail. And if Arn had spotted the tail, his attacker was most likely just as savvy.

  Long picked up his flashlight and started back to his van when Arn called him back. “How long have you been with the PD?”

  “Thirteen years in March.”

  Arn motioned to the Leapfrog. “You remember when this place was open?”

  Long laughed and flicked his light on the back door, which had been boarded up with plywood. Someone had spray-painted a giant penis on the wood, and it had drooped with time and moisture. “Hard to forget the only gay bar in Cheyenne. ’Cept the owner never explained the name.”

  “Ana Maria said it meant two guys playing leapfrog naked,” Arn said. “And one comes up short.”

  Long scrunched his face up. “I see now.”

  “Did you guys have any problems when it was open?”

  “Not from them.” The cop jammed his hands inside his pants pocket to warm. “But from every cowboy in the area who felt obligated to come to town and kick the shit out of a queer.” He laughed. “Except sometimes the gays were a lot tougher, and they were the ones doing the shit-kicking. Why, you plan on reopening it?”

  “You want me to?”

  “Not on your life.” Long shined his light on the bar again. “Do you know how hard it was to do bar checks without someone wanting to shake your hand?”

  Arn realized he was still holding his revolver, and he slipped it into his pocket. “Do you recall the Five Point killings very well?”

  “Like yesterday,” Long said immediately. “Unfortunately.” He kicked a clump of ice and watched as it rolled against the Leapfrog. “I was a rookie patrolman then. We stopped every homeless man we saw walking the streets. Rousted anyone who crashed in the parking garages. We had so many false leads we followed up on, but nothing even close.” He nodded to the bar. “Except this place. The bartender had a hazy description of the guy when he left with the first victim … ”

  “Joey Bent.”

  “Yeah. Him. Little dweeb who worked on foreign outfits over at Import Motors.” Long looked at his boots, thinking. “Five foot ten to six two, the bartender claimed of the suspect. Medium build. Unknown hair because of a hoodie. Unknown age. Like I said: hazy. Nothing there … except a limp.” He shook his head. “God help the person who walked around town with a stubbed toe or pulled muscle back then, ’cause we rousted them all. Even checked out some vets hobbling to the VA center. No luck though.”

  “Do you ever think about those cases?”

  Long’s face lost its color. “Every. Damned. Night. And it’s been especially bad since that Ana Maria began her horseshit special.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “I wish to hell something would come of it,” Long said. “But after ten years, there’s nothing new that’ll come to light. And a lot of people have already gotten hurt by it.” He pointed to Arn’s neck. “You ought to know.”

  Arn thanked him for what information he could provide and Long motored away from the bar, leaving Arn to wonder what the Leapfrog had been like back then. There were a few gay bars when he worked in Denver, but here in Cheyenne the Leapfrog had been a novelty. He’d read the interview Butch conducted with the owner when Joey Bent was murdered. “I’ll be lucky to stay open the rest of the year,” the owner had said. “Damned Internet. Gays have been hooking up with their computers. Next year, they won’t even need a respectable place like the Leapfrog. Drives one to go straight.”

  The owner’s predictions had been prophetic. Within the year, the Leapfrog closed shop, leaving gay men to hook up over the net. Perhaps, Arn thought, that was the reason the killer was seen with Joey and not Delbert. Butch had speculated the killer could have just as easily been a woman prostitute. But what if it was a man—a predator looking to fill his par
ameters for his next prey.

  Fifty

  I assume Anderson spotted the van trailing him. I picked him up right as he left Old Chicago. I don’t know, but I would bet an unhealthy dose of lethal injection that it’s a cop tailing him. He drives like a cop, keeping back a textbook block behind. Lately the police have been using old Crown Vics. This van has me thinking perhaps their learning curve is peaking. Perhaps I’ll have to keep on my toes more from now on. I like that; the thought that things will become a challenge. About time. But in the end, I’ll really never be in danger of that state-ordered lethal injection. I’m too good to get caught. If I keep my wits about me as I did back in the day.

  Anderson darks out as he slips between two semi-trucks and trailers that hide his little car. Even if I didn’t know he was a thirty-year cop, I’d know he’s been around. Picked up tricks. Knows the little things that’ve kept him alive. I caught him off guard in the park the other night. And in the basement of Gaylord’s old house. I suspect he’ll be on high alert from now on. But that’s okay, too. Anderson upping his game keeps me professional. Even if I wasn’t seeking to get back in this game.

  The cop in the van drives into the Flying J parking lot with his lights off. He’s looking for Anderson somewhere in the maze of trucks idling against the cold. Only when Anderson pulls to the front of the place does the cop spot him. There’s got to be a reason Anderson did that. He could have sneaked inside the back way. The cop would never have seen him. But what I’ve learned of Anderson—he doesn’t do or see anyone by chance. There’s always a reason.

  Like the tall drink of water at the cashier counter. I walk in by the back door and stand with my back turned to the register. I try to listen to what Anderson and the cashier talk about while I wait for some pencil-necked geek with overgrown earrings to finish making my ham-and-cheese wrap. But there’s too much noise in the store. I can’t hear what Anderson and the guy are talking about. Whatever they say, they leave and cram themselves into Anderson’s car.