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 Denver, 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?”
“I can’t say. He was paroled from Four Mile in Colorado last year. Humor me, and just verify he’s current with his parole officer and still in Colorado.”
Oblanski jotted the information down. “That I can do. And I’ll assign an officer to babysit her. If she needs it.”
“She won’t know she needs it until something happens.”
Oblanski shrugged. “I’m in a reactive profession. So sue me.”
“I will, if anything happens to Ana Maria.”