“You can talk from there, Aunt Georgia. I wouldn’t want to hurt Mr. Anderson’s friend. Just yet.”
Georgia sat on the couch where Delbert Urban had bled out. The cheap bastards hadn’t even replaced the couch, Arn thought as he sawed slowly on the plastic ties with his pocket knife. “How’d you get here? I left you at my house—”
“You mean you left me stranded there,” Georgia said. “I left a note for the detectives on where that dead guy was and called a cab. Now what evidence do you have against Pieter?”
“Enough!” Pieter put the barrel of the gun against Ana Maria’s temple. “What do you know about me?” He glared at Arn.
“I know you’re the Five Point Killer—”
Georgia slapped Arn across the face. It opened his cheek up more, blood dripping down anew. “That’s nonsense. How could a fifteen-year-old boy overpower grown men? It’s not like he shot them from afar.”
“Tell your aunt how you first sedated them with your dad’s Xanax,” Arn said.
Pieter remained silent, and Arn talked directly to Georgia. “Dr. Delaney said Butch was taking too many pills. But not enough to account for being nearly out of his prescription. It was Pieter who was taking Butch’s Xanax. Five or six pills in a drink and it was lights out for Pieter’s victims. A little kid could have overpowered them. Except Delbert Urban”—he nodded to the couch—“who was too big and fat and he came out of the Xanax just in time to put up a hell of a fight.” Arn turned to Pieter. “I got this right?”
Pieter smiled wide, as if he enjoyed telling about the murder. “I crushed up Dad’s Xanax and slipped it into their drinks. They thought they were going to get lucky with some little gay boy. But the Xanax put them out like babies. Except Delbert came out of it just like you figured.” He motioned like he was sitting a bronc. “That was one wild ride.”
Georgia stepped toward Pieter, but he swung his gun toward Danny and she stopped. “But why did you kill those men?”
“It was exciting when Dad took me to homicides. Suicides.” Pieter’s eyes got a dreamy look to them, like the second eyelids lizards have. “Dad was God’s gift to detectives, and I thought, what the hell, I can fool the old man. I know enough. And I did, for a while. Until he got suspicious. ‘I’m so close I can smell him,’ Dad used to say just about every night. He’d lay his investigation strategy out for me. He’d tell me what he intended doing. It was impossible for him to catch me.”
“But why Steve DeBoer and Gaylord?” Georgia asked.
“Why else,” Pieter said. “They knew what Dad knew. And Dad was getting close.”
“I imagine Gaylord was the easiest,” Arn said, using his body movement to mask how he was cutting away the plastic tie around his wrists. “All you had to do was stage it so it looked like an autoerotic death.”
Pieter smiled. “A few Xanax in Gaylord’s rum and coke … slip a rope around his neck and toss the little bugger over the rafters. Drag that big old mirror down from upstairs. Scatter a few porn magazines around. Pretty smart, huh?”
“Except I figured it out.”
“And if this old man hadn’t saved your butt...” Pieter backhanded Danny with the gun. It knocked him to the floor. A fresh gouge opened over his eye and he kicked out at Pieter, who deftly stepped aside.
“Steve was a little more difficult, wasn’t he?”
“He called one afternoon and wanted to share a beer and pizza,” Pieter said. “Now and again I’d go to his place and he’d give me a beer. But just one so’s nobody would know.”
“But you were off on his address by one house when you called the pizza order in,” Arn said. His knife cut through the plastic tie and he held the free ends so they wouldn’t fall. “You put enough Xanax to choke a horse in his beer, I’d wager. But you couldn’t stage the fire right then.”
“How do you know that?”
“Dr. Rough, Assistant ME at the time, found larvae in Steve’s body, indicating he died at least a day earlier than the fire. Maybe as much as thirty-six hours earlier.”
“Tell Arn you didn’t do that,” Georgia said.
“You taught me well, Aunt Georgia: I can’t tell a lie.” Pieter laughed. “You said it’s a sin to lie.” He paced the floor in front of his captives like he was pacing in front of a jury. “I was always … thorough.” He smiled and pointed the gun at each of them in turn. “I didn’t have time to set the fire and stage the scene that day—I had to get to the ball game in Casper. So as soon as Steve went out, I smothered him and ran for the bus. We got snowed in overnight. When the roads opened the next day and we returned to Cheyenne, I went to his house. It wasn’t easy dragging a dead man and his recliner close to the curtains. His ratty old curtains. They caught fire with the first cigarette.”
“And poor old Laun McGuire could place you there the day before.”
“When you and Ana Maria spoke with him, I couldn’t chance that he’d remember seeing me at Steve’s place.”
“He knew nothing,” Arn said.
“His loss,” Pieter said.
“Oh Pieter, you really didn’t kill Steve, too?” Georgia asked.
“He was as close as Dad was to knowing who their famous Five Point Killer was.”
“Pieter, they have so little hard evidence.” Georgia jabbed a finger at Arn. “It’s all circumstantial. Tell him it’s all circumstantial.”
“It is,” Arn agreed. “But an overwhelming amount. Simple things. Like when you gave me conflicting stories about hearing someone downstairs the night Butch died.” He nodded to the couch. “Like Delbert’s death. Were you planning to kill him all those times you stopped by the Hobby Shop? ‘I bought a ton of glue’ is how much your project took, according to you.”
“You think you got things figured out,” Pieter said. ”Not that it’ll do you any good.”
“Like your teacher, Mr. Noggle? He knew you spent a lot of time at the Hobby Shop with Delbert. And when his death was reported in the news, Noggle suspected you. Did he threaten to expose you?”
Pieter looked at the tiny gun in his hand. “He hinted at it. He said after class one day that if I met him at his house, he’d tell me more of what he knew.” Pieter shook his head. “He met me at his door that night wearing a Speedo and a wry smile. Needless to say, I wasn’t interested in sex with him any more than the others.”
“And Old Mr. Noggle didn’t actually run off with Dawes’ wife?” Arn asked.
Ana Maria groaned, and Pieter turned to her. He brought his gun under her chin, and Arn had to fight to keep from springing on him. But he kept hold of the cut ties and his pocket knife while Pieter let her head drop back to her chest. “Now that’s the only coincidence in all this. I can tell you for certain Mr. Noggle did not run off with Dr. Dawes’ wife. She is not where Noggle has been for a decade.”
“Which is where?” Arn asked.
“I’d tell you,” Pieter laughed, pointing his gun at Arn’s head, “but then I’d have to kill you.” He snapped his fingers. “But I’m going to anyway, so no one will know about those murders.”
“Chief Oblanski knows. He knows you hung around Joey Bent when he worked on that fine old Karman Ghia in your garage. And by the way, when you tail someone, do a better of job in not getting caught.”
Pieter’s smile faded. “How’s that?”
“The night I talked with Laun McGuire and with the policeman following me—seems like you were right in back of him. Remember the fresh tar along 5th Street? The tar that you couldn’t get off your VW in your garage? So you know, Oblanski knows that, too.”
“If this is all true,” Georgia said, pleading and in tears now, “your home life—Hannah never home, Butch dragging you to those terrible crime scenes—will mitigate things. You don’t have to kill anyone else, Pieter.”
“You want me to spend the rest of my life in the looney bin in Evanston, playing dom
inoes with criminally insane people, Aunt Georgia? Not on your life.”
“Did you kill Johnny White?” Georgia asked.
Danny tried sitting up, but Pieter kicked him in the back and he fell back down. Arn weighed jumping Pieter now, but he was halfway across the office. And Arn knew he wasn’t nearly as quick as he once was.
“Johnny went on television, pleading for any new leads,” Pieter said. “If I was to ever send a message to Ana Maria and Anderson here to call off the TV special, I had to kill Johnny.”
“But you shot him with your dad’s gun,” Arn said.
“I told you Bobby Madden slipped Butch’s gun in with the guns to be destroyed,” Georgia said, trying to convince herself. “So Pieter couldn’t have done it.”
“Bobbie Madden never took Butch’s gun that night from you,” Arn said.
“Of course he did—”
“Ned Oblanski was in charge of the gun buyback program that year,” Arn told Georgia. “He never remembered a quality Walther. You kept it.” Arn worked his hands down to where he could rub circulation back into them without Pieter seeing. “You kept the gun, Georgia. And later gave it to Pieter.”
“He didn’t kill Johnny—”
“I did so, Aunt Georgia. When I approached Johnny in his driveway, he thought we were going to talk about the Broncos game. He never saw the gun in my coat sleeve. Dammed anemic little gun didn’t kill him right off. So I had to sneak into his room.”
“Wasn’t much sneak to it,” Arn said. “You still retained keys to the maintenance door from when you delivered for that freight company in high school.”
“That’s nonsense,” Georgia said. She walked toward Pieter.
“Stay where you are.”
Georgia stopped. “You were having lunch with Meander when Johnny was murdered.”
“But he wasn’t.” Arn chin-pointed to Pieter. “When the hospital was locked down after they found Johnny, Pieter was trapped inside. He had to stay inside. I got to admit it was genius to concoct that lunch offer with Meander off the cuff.”
Pieter smiled and exaggerated a bow. “I came through the only door without a camera. But Frank Dull Knife has a key, too. And he’ll get all the credit for this night.”
“Frank doesn’t fit the video.”
“How so?”
Arn nodded to Pieter’s shoes. “You wore Nikes that morning. They hurt your feet. You’ve always been a New Balance man. Frank limps a little, but it’s pronounced on one side only. The hospital video shows someone limping on both feet. Like the Nikes hurt when you walk.”
“You are a detective.” Pieter smiled. “I had to wear the same shoes I always did: Gaylord’s house, Delbert’s back. Johnny’s room—”
“Outside my car at the Shady Rest.”
Pieter nodded. “I put the same print every time so you yokels could find it. Not over obvious. Dad always said to discount evidence that looks too obvious.”
“And planting those shoes in Dawes’ car? And I’d bet you tossed some of that Old Spice around the doorway, knowing I’d eventually get around to interviewing Adelle.”
Pieter shrugged. “It caused you to look at him as a suspect. And when you figured out it wasn’t a suicide, to look closer at Frank.” He turned to Georgia. “You’re going to have to step into the alley now.”
“You’re going to kill them?” Georgia said.
“I could have killed them that night I sneaked into Mr. Anderson’s house. As it was, I wanted to just send a little message that I could take them any time I wanted.”
“Pretty clever making it look like Frank was the one who came into my house.”
“Why, thank you.”
“But we knew it wasn’t Frank.”
“Oh, this I gotta hear,” Pieter said.
Ana Maria’s head came up and she tried focusing through her good eye, recognition coming as a passing nod before her head dropped back onto her chest.“Frank has a biker wallet with a chain that dangles down and slaps against shit you can hear for a block. There was no way he could sneak into my house without Danny waking up.”
Pieter chuckled. “As sound as you sleep, I could have driven a motorcycle up those steps and you’d still be cutting Zs. But”—he motioned to Georgia—“she was sweet on you and I thought I might be able to scare you and Ana Maria off the cases.” He smiled. “I couldn’t hardly kill you off if we were going to be family.”
“And now we come to the real reason your dad killed himself.”
“It was Butch’s anxiety at work,” Georgia said. “The pressure of the Five Point cases, Steve and Gaylord’s deaths. And Hannah catting around with every guy that looked her way.”
“Is that right, Pieter?” Arn said, spitting blood, still working circulation into his hands behind his back. “Or was it that Butch was sharper than you gave him credit for? Was it because he found out you killed those men?”
“That’s bullshit—”
“Is it? He got on to you when he discovered his Xanax was coming up short. ‘The Five Point Killer is so close, I can smell him.’ And he could. That damned Old Spice you plastered over everything to fool me. Steer me in another direction. Butch found out you were the killer, and he couldn’t take it.”
“Butch loved Pieter,” Georgia pled.
“Of course he did.” Arn’s voice softened for the moment. “He loved his son so much, he knew it was his duty to turn him in. But he couldn’t. And so Butch took his only other option: he killed himself because he knew if he didn’t, he’d eventually have to arrest Pieter.”
“Is that true?” Georgia asked. She stepped toward him, but Pieter swung his gun at Arn. She ignored it and walked to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Did Butch kill himself because of you?”
Pieter backed away, and his gun lowered ever so slightly. Arn braced himself. “Dad found that old Army survival knife of his in my room one night. Bloody. I’d gotten careless and forgot to wash it off. I told him I was out hunting rabbits with some friends, and we’d skinned some. He still didn’t put it together until he found that bag of plastic badges under my bed. The ones Dad and every other cop on the force gave out to little kids. He started connecting the dots to my whereabouts when the murders took place. He asked me about it. But of course I denied it.”
“But a good interrogator like your father saw right through you,” Arn said, gathering his legs to spring.
Pieter lowered the gun a little further. “I’m afraid so. He acted like he wanted to believe me. But he didn’t.” He pushed Georgia aside. “You really have to leave us alone now.”
Georgia stepped between Ana Maria and Danny and Pieter. “You’ll have to kill me along with them.”
Pieter’s gun hand began to shake. “You know I can’t kill you.”
“But I can.” Frank Dull Knife had walked through the door as silently as he’d entered dozens of houses in his criminal career. He jammed a slab-sided .45 into Pieter’s ribs. “You know the drill, pretty boy. Drop it and set your scrawny ass on that couch before I shoot it. Setting me up … ”
Pieter let his gun drop to the floor and sat down on the couch. Frank bent and picked the gun up. “Little prick.” He motioned to Georgia, and she sat beside Pieter. Frank was too far away to make a play, and he looked at Arn. “Because of you, Ned Oblanski’s going to pin Butch’s murder on me.”
“You didn’t do it,” Arn said.
Frank backhanded Arn flush on the cheek, nearly knocking him onto the floor. Arn struggled to keep his chair upright and his pocket knife concealed in his hand. “How’s that for starters, Mr. Metro detective?”
Arn tasted the sweetness of his blood as he concentrated on waiting for the right moment. ”I’ll bet you bought that gun from Jerry Shine.”
“This?” Frank grinned. “Like the little prick said, felons can’t possess firearms.”
“And just where is Jerry?” Arn asked. “About fifty miles from your shop?”
“You’re smarter than you look.”
Pieter started to rise, and Frank swung the gun on him. “Sit down, pretty boy.”
Pieter sat back down and wrapped his arm around Georgia.
“I should have turned your ass in for those Five Point murders years ago,” Frank said. “You always thought you were better than anyone else. Did I mention your mom was a bum lay?”
Pieter sprang from the couch and Frank hit him hard on the face. Pieter fell to the floor, blood spurting onto the tile from a shattered nose. Georgia grabbed him by the waist and hauled him back beside her. She turned to shield him with her body as best she could.
“One afternoon, boys and girls,” Frank began, “Hannah and me did the wild thing at her house when the old man was out working. She showed me her little boy’s room, and Pieter’s collection of those silly plastic badges cops give out to kids. She showed me some hospital gowns and masks that he swiped from that freight company he worked for after school.” Frank leaned closer to Pieter, and Arn thought he was going to hit him again. “She showed me where someone in the household had been swiping the old man’s Xanax, and it wasn’t her.” He kicked Pieter on the knee and he howled in pain.
“Leave him alone!” Georgia said, hugging Pieter.
Frank shrugged and backed away. He sat on a chair and pointed the gun at them. “I was going to place an anonymous call to the cops, but Hannah talked me out of it. It wasn’t like I didn’t do my share of stealing, so I thought, screw it. Let him steal the shit for all I care. Until one night … ” Frank lowered his voice, and his hand began a slight tremble. “Hannah wanted some excitement. ‘Let’s do a house,’ she said. ‘You know any?’ She didn’t care about the money. Just the rush of getting caught. So I says, sure, we’ll take a drive to this friend of mine who’s a mechanic at Import Motors. I thought he was out of town. Well, you can fill in the blanks,” Frank went on. “When we motored darked-out up to Joey Bent’s house, there was a yellow Karman Ghia in the driveway. We thought WTF, Pieter’s getting ass-packed, ’cause everyone knew Joey was queer. We was going to leave when pretty boy staggered out of the house and sped away. When we went inside, there was Joey laying there, head dammed near loped off, leaking all over his shag carpeting. And there was this plastic badge just laying at his feet. Joey hadn’t been dead for a couple minutes. He was even spurting from his neck. Even I got sick. You remember that?” Frank kicked Pieter again and he drew back, just catching Frank’s boot on his shin.
Hunting the Five Point Killer Page 35