Hunting the Five Point Killer

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Him?” Oblanski tapped the picture. “Where?”

  “Last week. By the Depot. I was talking with Ana Maria. He got into a little scuffle with some other bum.”

  Oblanski grabbed his notepad and pen. “What did the other guy look like?”

  Arn rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t pay any attention.”

  “Crap,” Oblanski said. He tossed his pencil at the wall. “With a slice across his throat like that, I figured it might be the same one who offed Laun McGuire. Crap.”

  Oblanski’s phone rang. He answered it and quickly set it back on the cradle. “She’s waiting in interview room one. As soon as I finish with the press briefing, I’ll be there. And I’ll need a statement about what McGuire told you when you’re finished.”

  Arn walked the hallway that seemed longer than it had ever been and entered the interview room. Georgia met him halfway across the floor. “What’s going on? The patrolman who brought me in wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

  “Chief Oblanski thought it’d be easier if I told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  “He intends on arresting Pieter for the murder of his father.”

  “What!”

  Arn motioned to a chair at a stainless steel table bolted to the floor. “Sit. Please.”

  Georgia stood defiantly for a long moment before sitting. Arn dropped into a chair across from her and opened his bag. He spread notes and folders on the table. “He wanted me to tell you.”

  “That’s nonsense. Pieter loved his dad. How could Oblanski—and especially you—even think Pieter capable of that? What evidence do you have?”

  “Emma Barnes—”

  “That senile old bitty—”

  “—was quite correct on the time that you arrived at Butch’s house that night. She’s got fantastic memory about all things … old.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you think Pieter killed Butch.”

  “Pieter said he let you in that night after you arrived.”

  “Of course he did,” Georgia said.

  Arn turned a page in his notebook. “See, that’s what’s been bugging me. I should have realized it, living back in Mom’s old house. It had one of those spring-operated door locks, where you push a button and the lock snaps shut and engages. The morning my car got vandalized, I locked myself out of the house. It was a new lock, and I hadn’t thought to lock the bolt back with the spring button. The killer couldn’t have engaged the lock on Butch’s door—where it engaged on closing—because it didn’t work very well. The guy who bought Butch’s house said there’s a trick to thumbing it back it so it’ll lock. He showed me that it’s near impossible to set it so it locks on closing.”

  “That’s nonsense. The lock must have worked properly back then. That was ten years ago. Things rust up over time … ”

  “It was rusted and hard to work when the guy bought the place a year after Butch was murdered.”

  “The killer—the real killer—must have left the house after he killed Butch. And the lock naturally snapped shut like it’s supposed to.”

  “That was the only logical explanation. It needs to be locked and unlocked, either from the inside or with a key outside, it’s so worn and rusted. You told me you didn’t have a key for the place.”

  “The guy must have changed the lock. He must have forgotten—”

  Arn shook his head. “He’s mighty proud of that heavy old door. And the stout old vintage lock.” He leaned over and laid his hand on Georgia’s arm, but she jerked away. “No one killed Butch and slipped out,” he said. “Someone with a key needed to have locked it behind them.”

  “Frank,” Georgia blurted out. “Hannah must have given him a key to get in so they could have their little bed-time.”

  “You even told me Hannah had gone out on the town to get laid. Frank would have no reason to want in. No, the only one who could have locked and unlocked that front door was someone from the inside: Butch or Pieter. And Butch was dead.”

  Georgia stood and paced the room. “Butch must have let someone in,” she sputtered.

  “Butch stayed alive in his job because he was paranoid. You told me that yourself. He wouldn’t have let anyone in the house he didn’t trust.”

  Georgia turned away from Arn and crossed her arms, her mother-hackles in full defiant mode. “The crime scene technician tested Pieter and me for gunshot residue.”

  Arn nodded. “And found no residue.”

  “There. That proves Pieter didn’t shoot Butch.”

  “Except there was soap under Pieter’s fingernails,” Arn bluffed. He’d seen how close the bathroom was to the living room. If Pieter had handled the gun that killed Butch—as Arn had finally realized, looking at the photos—Pieter would have known the GSR test was standard practice. And washed his hands. “Now what fifteen-year-old boy wakes up in the middle of the night and thinks to wash his hands.”

  Georgia turned her chair away from Arn. “Then you tell me why he would have washed up that morning.”

  “Pieter hung around his dad long enough, went to enough crime scenes, to know the GSR test is mandatory on anyone at the scene. He washed up and scrubbed what particles were on his hands from the gunshots.” Arn ran his bluff, like he often did, by the seat of his pants and pure cop intuition. He was banking on the fact that no matter how much two or more people committing a crime rehearsed their stories, in the back of their minds there was always something they’d missed discussing. “Pieter hated Butch for the abuse he heaped on him—”

  “Pieter loved his dad.” Georgia turned back around and spittle flew off her mouth, her neck a crimson color in the bright lights of the interview room. “He loved Butch!”

  “He might have,” Arn said, “but Butch took out his frustrations about Hannah on Pieter. Dragging him to those nasty crime scenes—”

  “He wanted Pieter to be a law officer.”

  “I believe that.” Arn softened his voice. “And I believed you when you said Butch never laid a hand on Pieter. But he abused him psychologically, just like you said. And Pieter finally cracked that night.”

  “He’d never hurt his father.” Georgia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Pieter was always a good boy.” Tears flowed down her cheeks, and Arn slid his bandana across the table. She hesitated before picking it up. “Does Oblanski know all this?”

  Arn nodded. “And the prosecutor. There’ll be an arrest warrant issued this morning.”

  He waited for that to sink in before continuing. He often felt elation when he was within a micro tic of gaining a confession. But he felt only a hollow in the pit of his stomach for deceiving Georgia. “Pieter doesn’t have to be charged.”

  Georgia pulled the bandana away and met his stare.

  “He didn’t kill Butch,” Arn said.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” She leaned across the table. “But now you’re accusing me. You think I had a key and let myself in? You think I got fed up with Butch abusing his son and killed him myself?” She tossed Arn’s bandana at him. “You accuse me?”

  “No,” Arn said. “I’m accusing Butch.” He turned to a sheet in his notebook he’d dog-eared. “Butch found out that Hannah—besides screwing Frank Dull Knife—had pulled a series of residential burglaries with him. Frank taunted Butch with that a couple weeks before he died. Butch couldn’t bear the thought of people knowing his wife was a burglar.”

  “He was worried about something the last months of his life,” Georgia admitted. “Maybe that’s what it was.”

  “Butch took Xanax for anxiety … ”

  “ … he must have been worried people would find out about Hannah … ”

  “ … and he went to the ER to have his stomach pumped a week before his death. That was a false start.”

  “What are you rambling about?”

  “He overdos
ed on the Xanax wanting to kill himself. Before he ultimately succeeded in doing so”

  Georgia stood suddenly, and the chair overturned and skidded across the barren floor. “I’m outta here.”

  “You don’t want to learn what I found out?”

  Georgia hesitated before she set the chair upright and sat back down.

  Arn took photos out of his bag and spread them across the table, along with still photos of freeze-framed video shots. Georgia turned away, and Arn waited until she turned back before positioning them so she could see. He traced Butch’s fingers with his pen. “This was copied from the video taken the night he died. His fingers show they are curled. But around what? There’s nothing there. Whatever he was holding at the time he died had been removed.”

  He laid another photo side by side. “And this is the still picture taken sometime after the video was shot, showing Butch’s fingers straightened.” He looked into Georgia’s eyes. “Dead men just don’t move their fingers willy-nilly. Butch shot himself with his own gun.”

  Georgia sat up straight and crossed her arms. “That’s impossible. Butch’s gun was hanging over the back of a kitchen chair. Still in his shoulder holster. He couldn’t have shot himself fatally and walked back to his recliner.”

  “His duty gun was in the kitchen all right. But not his backup. Here.” Arn thumbed through the photos and grabbed another.

  Georgia looked away. “Does this make you feel good, showing me pictures of my dead brother?”

  “Not particularly. But look at Butch’s trousers.”

  Georgia bent and studied the photo. “So his pants are undone. I told you he was vain. Bought pants a size too small. He often loosened them when he came home after work.”

  “I’m not showing you this because his pants are unzipped. I’m showing you this because his trouser leg is pulled up. Got hung up on his sock.”

  She looked again. “And that proves what?”

  “It finally dawned on me that Butch—like many officers—carried a backup gun. Some carry them in the small of their back. Some in shoulder holsters. Many, including Butch, carried one in an ankle rig. When I met with Johnny White, he had the same problem with his pants leg getting hung up on his holster. And Oblanski too, when his pants didn’t fall all the way over his gun.” Arn leaned across the table. “But Butch’s gun is gone. Someone pried his gun from his fingers, and took off his ankle holster so no one would know. Was it you or Pieter?”

  “That’s bullshit. Butch was shot twice. The medical examiner said either would have been instantly fatal.”

  “A cadaveric spasm.”

  “A what?”

  “That was another thing that finally penetrated my thick skull,” Arn explained. “I talked with Dr. Rough about a drowning victim he had who still clutched reeds at the bottom of Glendo after death. It reminded me of a case in Denver where two brothers were fighting and one killed the other. The dead brother clutched the knife in his hands even when they brought him into the autopsy room. We had to break his fingers to pry the knife loose, they were held so tight.”

  “It still doesn’t explain how Butch could have shot himself twice.”

  “Of course it does.” Arn sat back in his chair, wishing he were someplace besides drawing a confession from Georgia. “Butch shot himself—my guess, he carried a small auto as a backup—and his muscles reflexed, tightening his finger on the trigger after that first shot. And he shot himself again. Either which would have been fatal by the ME’s opinion.”

  Georgia forced a laugh. “Just who the hell shoots themselves in the chest? People shoot themselves in the head. Or didn’t you learn that in Denver?”

  “Someone as vain as Butch would.” Arn flipped pages. “Butch always dressed well. Neat. Haircut once a week. And I’d wager his sister dyed his hair when he needed it, too.”

  Georgia looked away.

  “You told me numerous times Butch was vain. Like many women. I’ve never investigated a woman’s suicide by gunshot who capped herself in the head. Something about being afraid to look like hell when officers arrive. Vanity. And Butch wouldn’t want that either.”

  Georgia stared at the corner of the room.

  “But the kicker for me,” Arn said, “was how you never once referred to Butch as being murdered. You always said he died. Like you knew what happened.” He leaned over and laid his hand on her arm. This time she didn’t jerk away. “You came to the house as soon as Pieter called you. He let you in. When you saw the gun in his hand, you knew immediately he’d killed himself.” Arn rested his hand on Georgia’s arm. “Butch tried killing himself by overdosing on his Xanax a week before he shot himself, didn’t he?”

  Georgia nodded. “I did my best to be around him after work. After that attempt. Anything so I could keep an eye on him. I was afraid he’d take more pills the next time.”

  “But you never imagined he’d shoot himself, I’d wager.”

  Georgia looked up. “I never thought, as vain as he was, that he would.” She forced a laugh. “Guess he was just smart enough to get around looking like hell after he was shot. He just sat there in the chair looking like he’d passed out or something.”

  “And Pieter got involved, didn’t he?”

  Georgia’s shoulder shook and she started sobbing. Arn slid his bandana across the table and waited. When she’d dried her eyes, she looked at him. “I … I couldn’t pry the gun loose from Butch’s hand. His fingers were too tight around the grip. Pieter had to help me. He told me the detectives would do a Gun Shot Reside test on us both once they arrived. He said Butch always ordered that at shootings, and we washed up. I guess Pieter didn’t get all the soap from his hands.”

  “That accounts for the discrepancy between when Emma Barnes saw you go inside and when you called 911. It took time to pry the gun lose and hide it. Then wash up so residue wouldn’t show up on your hands. And take Butch’s holster off his leg.”

  Georgia nodded.

  “What happened to the gun?”

  “I hid it in my purse. Bobby Madden was the first detective on the scene. He spotted Butch’s hand still curled right off, and he knew what had happened. He just knew.” Georgia blew her nose. “Sorry.” She held up the bandana.

  Arn forced a smile. “Under the circumstances, it’s all right.”

  “Bobby told me to give him the gun, so I did. I told him he could keep it. I never wanted to see it again.” She dabbed at her eyes with a clean spot and turned her chair around to face Arn, glad to finally tell the truth. “Bobby was going to open Butch’s fingers, but the video tech shot his footage before he could. When the tech left to grab his 35mm for the still photos, Bobbie … did it. He straightened Butch’s fingers. He said if he didn’t, the ME would spot that right off and ask what he was clutching at the time of his death.”

  “Was it Bobby’s idea to rule it a homicide? There’s nothing in any of his notes that mentioned suicide. Because he didn’t want anyone to know?”

  “There’s always been such a stigma about officers committing suicide. I didn’t want Pieter going through life with that.” Georgia blew her nose again. “Bobby and Butch had worked investigations for years together. They were friends, as much as Butch developed friends. Bobbie said that if Butch’s death were a homicide, Hannah—and Pieter—would get the hundred thousand dollars the feds give families for line-of-duty deaths. A suicide and they’d get nothing.”

  Arn shuffled through the papers until he pulled up Detective Madden’s initial report. The victim, Bobby wrote, must have struggled with his attacker because we found gun shot residue on one hand. Most likely when the victim grabbed his attacker’s gun. Arn knew that coroners and some medical examiners often went with whatever the investigating officer speculated. That explained the residue on one of Butch’s hands.

  “What did Bobby do with Butch’s backup gun?” he asked.

 
“He gave it to the officer in charge of the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell gun buyback program the city has been doing for years. Bobby said it would be crushed into a thousand pieces along with every other gun turned in that winter.” Georgia stood, hugging herself, and Arn sorely wanted to go to her. Tell her everything would be all right, now that the truth was out. But he wasn’t going to lie to her.

  “What will happen to me and Pieter now?” she asked.

  “I’m guessing there’ll be no charges filed, as there was no homicide committed. You’ve been misleading the public about Butch’s death for a decade, but that’s not chargeable. As for the hundred grand the DOJ gave Hannah for Butch’s death, Pieter may have to repay it. But it’s not for me to decide.”

  Arn nodded at the one-way glass, and Oblanski entered the room behind Pieter. Pieter ran to his aunt and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her for long moments before breaking away and facing Arn. “Those shots woke me that night, just like I said. By the time I ran downstairs, Dad was dead, and the only thing I could think of was to call Aunt Georgia.”

  Arn gathered up his notes and photos and put them back in his bag. “And all these years, you’ve been accusing Frank Dull Knife of killing your father.”

  Pieter frowned. “Frank never was any good. Finding out Mom and Frank were involved in house burglaries was the final straw for Dad. He was beside himself that last week. He didn’t know what to do except ask that charges against Frank be dismissed. And no amount of Xanax could ease his pain. He did the only thing he knew to do.”

  Arn slung his man bag over his shoulder. “Now comes the tough part of being the police chief,” he told Oblanski.

  Oblanski kicked the carpet with his boot and finally met Pieter’s eyes. “If we tell the truth, the feds come after you.”

  “And after Aunt Georgia?”

  Oblanski nodded. “For fraud, possibly. You’ll have to repay the money with interest at the very least, I’d wager. And the hardest part,” Oblanski said, “is you’ll lose your state builder’s license.