Hunting the Five Point Killer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  When they finally pulled off 10th Street, she jotted the time down. “Thirty-two minutes.”

  Arn pulled to the curb in front of Emma’s old house and turned in the seat as best he could. “Maybe Georgia was wrong about the time. Or maybe Pieter looked at the clock wrong.”

  Ana Maria put her hand on his shoulder. “You taught me some years ago to go with my instincts. What do your instincts tell you about the time difference?”

  “That someone’s mistaken,” he said immediately. “I just don’t know who.” He grabbed his Stetson from the back seat. “You up to doing some sweet-talking?”

  “More like laying on the old Villarreal charm,” she said. They’d planned to interview the owners of Emma’s house and Butch’s houses separately. Arn hadn’t heard anything about the folks who’d bought Emma’s, but the guy who’d bought Butch’s bordered on reclusive. So many people through the years had come to the place wanting to see just where Butch Spangler had been murdered. It would take someone special to break through that crust. And Arn figured Ana Maria was a lot prettier than he was.

  They climbed out of the Clown Car and she started for Butch’s house. Out of the corner of his eye, Arn saw an unmarked Crown Vic parked where the officer could watch that house, and he walked toward Emma’s old place. He passed a brown Buick with a badly crumpled fender parked in the driveway, and a one-ton Ford duly sitting halfway over the curb, two beer cans on the ground outside the driver’s door. A man ran from the house and jumped when he saw Arn in his driveway. “Shit. You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “In this neighborhood, a man can’t be too careful.”

  Arn agreed and handed him a business card. The man seemed to struggle with the name. “Arn Anderson. Like the old wrestler with the Minnesota Wrecking Crew? Got an autograph?”

  It wasn’t the first time someone mistook him for the pro wrestler. “I’m not him.”

  “Sure you are. No, wait—I seen you on TV.” The man slapped his leg. “You’re that guy who’s looking into that cop’s murder years ago.”

  “I’d like to look at your neighbor’s house from that window.” Arn pointed to a bay window facing Butch’s house. He explained that he needed to check on angles, to verify Emma Barnes could see the house the night Butch was killed.

  “Who that you’re jawing with, Hilly?” a woman called from inside the house.

  “Some feller investigating that cop’s murder next door. Says he needs to see the house from inside ours.”

  A woman emerged from the house and rested her chin over Hilly’s shoulder. She still wore a nightgown, despite it being eleven in the morning. “That right, mister? You need to come in?”

  “If I could.”

  She slugged Hilly’s shoulder. “Well, step aside and let him in.”

  “But I got to go to work.”

  Her grin widened and she winked at Arn. “I know you do.”

  Hilly stepped around Arn and climbed in his truck. He punched it and it crow-hopped jumping off the curb, leaving the little wife cradling a beer in one hand, a cigarette in a silver holder in the other. She looked Arn over and settled her gaze on his groin. “Come on in, Big ’Un.”

  She led him inside a house that looked as if the last time it had been cleaned was when Emma owned it. Everywhere piles of clothes narrowed the walkway, or reams of stacked newspapers, or garbage sacks bulging with crushed beer cans. “You want a drink?” she asked, smiling. “Or anything else?”

  “I’m good.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” she said.

  She shut the door, and Arn kept an eye on the escape hatch should he need it. “I’d like to sit at your bay window to the east.”

  “That’s all you want?” She motioned for him to follow her. “See,” she laughed when Arn followed her, “I made you come with one finger.”

  She led him down a short hallway cluttered with boxes labeled “underwear” and “socks” and “panties” as if they’d just moved in. She motioned to them, her can of Grain Belt sloshing on the floor. “Don’t mind the mess, sugar.”

  “Can I sit?” Arn pointed to a chair in front of the bay window where Emma had claimed to see Georgia arrive that night, and where she’d sat most nights just waiting for some disturbance so she could call the police. He squinted through the dirty glass, and just caught Ana Maria’s jacket disappearing inside the Spangler house.

  The woman tipped the chair and a basket of dirty clothes tumbled onto the floor. “Are you married, sugar?”

  “Happily,” Arn lied.

  “Then where’s your ring?”

  “Pawned it,” he answered, moving the curtain aside.

  “So we’re not the only ones,” she said and tipped her beer up. “You fool around?”

  Arn ignored her and scooted the chair close to the window. He imagined how Emma had sat there practically every night, tatting doilies and watching the Spangler house. He could clearly see Butch’s front lawn and front door through the window. Emma’s memory was correct: she was able to see the Spanglers’ place from anywhere in front of that bay window.

  Cigarette smoke became more intense and Arn was suddenly aware that the woman had leaned closer, her face florid from the booze and only inches from his. “What we looking at, sugar?” She batted one eyelid, the other partially closed from a recent brown bruise rimming the eye. Probably last week, Arn estimated, when Hilly had tuned his dear wife up. “What we looking at?”

  He pointed to Butch’s old house. Ana Maria hadn’t come out yet, and that worried him. “Why don’t you sit here and see if you can spot it, too.”

  She giggled as Arn vacated the chair. He waited until she’d sat and put her beer can on the window ledge before hustling toward the door. “Thanks, ma’am,” he called, and was out the door before she realized he’d escaped.

  He walked to Butch’s house, debating if he should give Ana Maria more time with the new owner. “To hell with that,” he said, and walked to the front door. He stood looking up at the second floor, to what would have been Pieter’s bedroom, when the door cracked open. “We’re Mormon,” a man called out.

  Arn looked around. “Congratulations.”

  “We don’t want any Watchtowers.”

  “Don’t have any.”

  “Ain’t you Jehovah’s Witness?”

  “I’ve been a witness to a lot of things, but never Jehovah,” Arn said, thinking here was a twist, a Mormon putting the run on a Jehovah’s Witness. “I’m consulting with the police department on Butch Spangler’s murder.”

  “You’re with the lady, then.” The Mormon flung the door open. He wore the striped coveralls of a railroad man, with no T-shirt, his man boobs spilling out to the sides. His zipper was broken, revealing romantic off-brown underwear when he turned just right. Thank God he’s not going commando, Arn thought.

  “Come in quick.”

  Arn brushed past him. The man looked nervously around before slamming the door. “Jay-bos come around this time of day trying to give me Watchtowers.”

  “They come just about every day,” Ana Maria added, as if she were there every day to witness this monumental event. She sat in a recliner, her legs gathered under her like she belonged to the house.

  “Ana Maria told me her television station hired some old retired cop to help.”

  “That’s me,” Arn said. “The over-the-hill retired cop.”

  “Huber was just giving me a tour of the place,” Ana Maria said, standing. “He’s changed it some since he bought it at a foreclosure auction.”

  “Got it cheap.” Huber beamed. “Guess no one wanted a house where a cop was murdered.” He looked around the room. “But that didn’t bother me none.”

  Ana Maria hooked her arm through Arn’s and started a self-guided tour while Huber stood with his eyes fixed on her. Butch Spangler’s ho
use was small for a two-story. The front door opened directly into the living room where Butch had been shot. Arn could see the bathroom from the living room. A cabinet stood open, much like the crime scene photos showed. A side door was ajar, revealing a bed and dresser, while another room was piled high with a sewing machine and bolts of fabric. “Huber’s missus takes in sewing,” she said.

  Huber walked beside them, scratching his two black chest hairs. “I put in a lot of work fixing this place up. It was in pretty bad shape. Replaced most of the wall board. The carpeting was so bad from all the blood, we had to bring in professionals.” He smiled proudly. “They cleaned it so good you couldn’t even tell where Butch Spangler died.”

  “Don’t forget the staircase, Huber,” Ana Maria said, and Arn caught her mischievous glance his way.

  “The staircase was dangerous when I bought it. Took some fixing to get it right.”

  Arn knew dangerous staircases. He’d had one before Danny repaired it. “It looks nice.”

  “Think so?” Huber smiled wide, and Arn could count the number of teeth on one hand.

  He walked to the staircase and turned around, imagining what Pieter saw the night he came down those steps and found his father dead in the chair. Butch would have been right there, slumped in his recliner, leaking over the dirty fabric that made up the recliner.

  “It must have been a shock to the kid to find his dad shot right there.” Huber seemed to be reading Arn’s mind.

  “I imagine so.” Arn looked around again. Except for different paint on the walls and ceiling, and minor cosmetics, the house looked just like it did in the crime scene photos.

  He walked to the front door. “You change the door, too?”

  “Heavens no,” Huber said. “You don’t see a nice solid oak door like that very often. I had to keep it.”

  Arn grabbed the lock and turned it. The bolt retracted with protest, and he tried sliding the button to lock it back. It was nearly rusted closed, and it wouldn’t budge. “Did you change the lock, or is it original?”

  Huber walked to the door. He stuck his head out and looked both ways. “I couldn’t change it. It’s like the door: solid. Tough.” He reached for the lock and finagled the button to close. “There’s a trick to getting it locked. Took me a while to figure it out. But I needed a strong lock like this to keep the Jehovah’s Witnesses out.”

  Fifty-Three

  A single light shone through cracks in the plywood covering the window Danny had nailed up yesterday. Arn disarmed the security system and let himself in. A soft song played from the kitchen, and he walked through the house. Danny sat with his feet propped on a five-gallon drywall mud bucket, leaning back in an occasional chair the “chair fairy” had found for him. He turned pages in a book as he squinted under a reading light. He looked up when Arn entered and put his finger to his lips. “Erv’s sleeping and he’s got—”

  “Phenomenal hearing,” Arn said. “I know.” He took his coat off and draped it over a chair.

  “Why are you home so early?” Danny stuck a piece of toilet paper to mark his page in 1984 and set it on the counter. “I thought you’d still be out.”

  “Ana Maria and I just talked with the guy who bought the old Spangler house. He did some remodeling, but kept it mostly like it was when Butch lived there. Including a solid oak door with some antique-looking lock. That sound right?”

  “Did he want to keep the door? I mean, does it have character?”

  “It did nothing for me. But it’s got some gouges and scrapes, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then I’d probably keep it. Old hardware is only slightly more difficult to come by than original doors.”

  Arn poured a cup of coffee and headed into the sewing room with Danny close behind. He parted the sheets hung over the doorway and stood in front of the white wall, studying the photos like he had every night since he’d tacked them up. He flicked on the floor lamp and shined it on the pictures. He pulled a chair close to the wall and sipped his coffee while studying the photos. He was missing something getting through his damned thick Norwegian skull.

  “What are we doing?” Danny asked.

  Arn ignored him and eyed the photos.

  Danny started speaking again, but Arn held his finger to his lips. “Erv’s got phenomenal hearing. In other words … ”

  “Danny, keep quiet.”

  “Smart man,” Arn said.

  Suddenly, he slapped his leg. His coffee spilled over his shirt front, but he didn’t even care. “You son-of-a-bitch.”

  Danny backed away. “Whatever it is I did—”

  “Not you.” Arn leaned over and tapped Butch’s picture with his finger. “Hand me that remote.”

  Danny passed him the remote, and he turned on the television. He inserted the old tape of Butch’s crime scene. Arn had run and rerun the video until he could memorize the scene. He’d never seen anything new. Until now. “There!” He stopped the tape.

  Danny stepped closer to the white wall and shook his head. “What’s there?”

  “His hand,” Arn said. “Look at Butch’s hand.” He ran the tape ahead a few frames and stopped it again. “See his hand? Now look at the still pictures.”

  Danny put on his glasses and squinted at the image of Butch Spangler slumped dead in his chair. “I still don’t see what you’re ranting about.”

  “About seventeen, eighteen years ago,” Arn explained, “agencies began videotaping crime scenes. The first thing the crime scene tech did—or the video and photograph technician, when I was in Metro—the first thing they did was to walk through the scene. Before anything else was touched. Before anyone came busting in and destroyed evidence.” Arn sat back in his chair, feeling exhausted and relieved both. “We’d use the tape to show the Watch Commander or the Battalion Commander, or the prosecutor, or anyone else who thought they needed to know what had happened. That way, they didn’t need to go bull their way into the crime scene and contaminate things.”

  “It doesn’t get you any closer to solving Butch’s murder. The video shows what the still photos do.”

  “No, they don’t,” Arn said.

  Danny put his glasses back on and blew drywall dust off the television screen, his eyes going from the television to the photos on the white wall. He took his glasses off and pocketed them. “I still don’t see what you’re so orgasmic about.”

  “This.” Arn traced Butch’s hand in the still photo. “The tape shows Butch’s fingers are curled. But sometime after the video was shot, Butch’s fingers got straightened out.” Arn pointed to another photo with his pencil. “And look at his trouser legs.”

  Danny took off his glasses. “So he was a little sloppy. Give the guy a break, he was at home.”

  “With one pants leg halfway pulled up over his ankle? That”—Arn tapped it again—“is what I’ve been missing.”

  “Well, there you have it.” Danny threw up his hands. “A dead man straightened his fingers out, and one pant leg is pulled up over his sock. Now why didn’t I connect the dots? Now you can solve the puzzle of who killed Butch Spangler.”

  “I just did.” Arn smiled for the first time. “Now all I have to do is prove it.”

  Fifty-Four

  “I’ve got an officer bringing her in for the interview now,” Ned Oblanski said. “The desk sergeant will let us know when they get here.” He led Arn into his office and motioned to a chair. “Are you sure this is the only way?”

  “It has to be,” Arn answered.

  “You know she’ll never trust you after this?”

  “I know that. She’ll probably outright hate me.”

  “And I can’t change your mind on recording the interview?”

  “I have to insist on no recording,” Arn said.

  Oblanski nodded. He poured himself a cup of coffee and offered Arn one. Arn declined. “I’ll be n
ervous enough as it is without caffeine messing me up even more.”

  “Then we’ll just wait till she arrives.” Oblanski sat and took out folders from his inbox that contained summaries of police reports he’d have to paraphrase for the press this morning.

  “Looks like it was a busy night,” Arn said.

  “Ana Maria’s been hounding my office already this morning,” Oblanski said. “I told her she’ll have to wait until the regular press briefing, but she claims she knows the victim.”

  “What victim?”

  Oblanski kept quiet.

  “Oh for God’s sake, I’m not going to run and tell her. Besides, when you’re giving your briefing I’ll be busy in the interview.”

  “All right.” Oblanski said. “A kid—hell, he was a thirty-year-old college student—was found by some joggers this morning in the pedestrian walkway under Yellowstone Avenue.”

  “A thirty-year-old college student?” Arn began feeling queasy even as he asked it.

  Oblanski shuffled through the first responder’s report. “Some McGuire … here it is.” He slid the report across his desk. “Some kid jogging found him with his throat slit. Bled to death.”

  Arn picked up the report. “Laun McGuire.”

  “Know him?”

  Arn rubbed his head and handed Oblanski the police report. “I talked with him at the Flying J two nights ago. He was … happy, I think, that he was getting an education. That he was going to make something of himself.”

  “Well, the only thing he’s going to make today is the front page news.” Oblanski gathered the incident report and tucked it in a folder. “Unlike this other poor bastard.”

  “What poor bastard?”

  Oblanski fished another report out. “Press don’t have this one ’cause we haven’t made an identification yet.” He slid the report across his desk, and Arn opened the folder. The victim, a homeless man in his forties who usually hung around the Depot bumming, was shown in his death repose under the railroad bridge by the Union Pacific Depot. Like Laun McGuire’s, the victim’s throat had been cut and he’d bled over his camouflage parka. “I saw this guy.”