Arn sat in the thin vinyl padded chair in the ER waiting room, sipping hospital Starbucks while he waited for news about Johnny. Oblanski had left the waiting room when the mayor’s office called, leaving Arn alone with a young couple huddled together in one corner. They were awaiting word on their infant, who was fighting for her life after crawling under the sink and ingesting rat poison. Every time someone in hospital scrubs walked by they jumped, expecting the worst, then settling back when the scrubs walked on through the room.
Across from them an elderly mother slumped in her chair, eyes puffy from crying. Arn had sat with her earlier as she told him her middle-aged son had overdosed on sleeping pills and Thunderbird wine. The emergency room doctor had given him a fifty-fifty chance. Arn had held her hand until she reassured him she was all right. And she had been, until the ER doctor entered the room, and Arn knew by the graven look etched across his weathered face that the mother would have no good news tonight. Arn had delivered many death notices in his thirty years as a lawman, and he never got used to it. Apparently the doctor hadn’t either, as he cried along with the mother while she buried her face in his shoulder. The doctor softly rocked her, stroking the old woman’s head until a nurse entered the room and led the woman away, freeing the doctor to attend to another tragedy.
The emergency room door opened and Arn caught a glimpse of another doctor, covered in blood, trying to save a woman Arn heard was run over by a car in front of the Air Guard base. Blood caked his gown, and his splash shield was smeared so badly he could barely see through it. A nurse pulled a sheet over the dead woman while the doctor stripped off his gown, mask, and paper booties. He tossed them into a biohazard container by the door. When he emerged from the trauma room a moment later, he wore jeans and a white shirt with no visible sign he’d been covered in a victim’s blood moments ago. But Arn knew the effects would stay with the young intern long after this night ended.
Oblanski re-entered the waiting room and the young couple jumped in anticipation. When they saw he was no physician, they returned to praying softly in the corner. Oblanski motioned to Arn, and he followed him into an empty room a couple doors down from the waiting room.
“I didn’t want it this way, but the mayor says I’m the acting chief until … ” Oblanski looked at the wall, as if he could see Johnny lying in his bed in intensive care. “Until he comes out of it.” He rubbed his forehead. “God, I hope he pulls through. I may have had words with Johnny, but I’d give anything … ”
Arn laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I know you would. And every other officer does too.” He gently led Oblanski to a chair beside an empty bed. “What did the doctors say about Johnny’s condition?”
Oblanski looked up, his forehead furrowed, mouth down turned. “He’s in an induced coma. Docs gave him a better than fifty-fifty chance if they can keep the pain under control. He’s a strong man. I have to believe he’ll beat the odds.”
“I hope so.” Arn scooted a chair close beside Oblanski. “Give me the headline version of what happened.”
Oblanski leaned back and white-knuckled the arms of the chair. “Johnny pulled into his driveway after work. His wife heard the car door shut, and he started talking with someone, but she paid them no mind. He often talked with neighbors when he got home, she told the responding patrolman. She went back to cooking supper when she heard two, maybe three shots. By the time she got to the door, Johnny was down in the driveway and the shooter was gone. Doctors dug one slug out him, a .380. Too deformed for any ballistic match, but enough to know it was a hollow point. 90 grains. My crime scene tech thinks the state DCI Lab could enhance it.”
“You’re sure of the caliber?”
Oblanski rang his hands together. “We found two spent .380 cases in the driveway.” He stood and walked to the sink. “The one that did the damage was a contact shot. Powder stripling on Johnny’s chest, muzzle imprint. Meaning someone surprised him. Shot him before he could react.”
“Or the shooter was someone Johnny knew.”
“Either way,” Oblanski said, “Johnny must have sensed something wrong with whoever he was talking with.”
“Is that the wife’s opinion?”
“No,” Oblanski answered, “it’s mine. Johnny’s pant leg was pulled up from going for his backup gun. Only reason for him to go for it is if he felt threatened.” Oblanski bent to the sink and splashed water onto his face. He patted dry with a paper towel. “What the hell did Johnny do to make someone mad enough to want to kill him? He hasn’t worked the street as an investigator in years. He hasn’t put anyone behind bars in a decade. He’s the proverbial good ol’ boy.”
Arn stretched out his legs and tilted his head to the ceiling, thinking just that. There was only one thing in his mind, and it wasn’t coincidence. “It’s got to tie in with his TV appearance.”
Oblanski nodded and tossed the paper towels in a trash bin. The wad hit the rim and fell out, but he made no attempt to pick it up. “I’ve been kicking that around. Maybe Butch’s killer is still here in Cheyenne. Maybe I was right all along—maybe Frank killed Butch and he doesn’t want the case reopened.” Oblanski buried his face in his hands. “Why shoot Johnny? Now?”
“Because he was the most visible face of the reopened investigation,” Arn said. “Except me and Ana Maria.”
Oblanski nodded.
“Are you ready to admit she needs protection now?”
“All right.” Oblanski threw up his hands. “So I made a mistake. I can spare one officer to keep guard either at your house or Ana Maria’s. Your pick.”
“She’s staying at my place until the TV special blows over.”
Oblanski raised his eyebrows. “You old dog, you.”
New drywall hung on the walls of the entryway as Arn entered, but he barely noticed. Nor did he pay much attention to heat from the new furnace as he staggered, dog-tired, to the coat room and opened the door to hang his jacket up.
“Your boots muddy?” Danny yelled from the kitchen. He came around the corner wearing an apron adorned with a rooster and wielding a pepper mill menacingly in Arn’s direction. A new floor lamp cast an evil glow over his anorexic face. “Take ’em off.”
“Take them off?” Arn looked around the room. “The carpeting is gone. All that’s left is the subfloor—”
“Take them off. I don’t feel like sweeping any more floors today.”
Arn leaned against the wall and tugged off his boots.
“And don’t lean against there. I just taped and mudded that wall.”
Arn set his boots on a piece of cardboard and hobbled into what was shaping up to be a usable kitchen. Danny checked a meal in the toaster oven before grabbing butter from a fridge that hadn’t been there that morning. “Where’d that come from, and don’t tell me the dumpster.”
“Of course not,” Danny answered. “It’s too big to fit in the dumpster. It came from the fridge fairy.”
Arn started to protest, then gave up. Danny had his own way of acquiring things. Arn just hoped the police didn’t come knocking on the door wanting to recover them.
“Where’s Ana Maria?” Danny asked. “Supper’s ready.”
“She’s staying late at the station,” Arn answered.
“Is that a good idea, her leaving work in the dark?”
“Oblanski finally admitted she needs police protection. He’s assigning an officer to her.” Arn pulled a chair out from under the card table and plopped down. He closed his eyes and rubbed away a migraine forming at the fringes of his temples.
“You look like hell.” Danny grabbed a pie plate from the oven and set it on the impromptu counter. “Have a hard day?”
“The hardest.” Arn leaned over and grabbed the pot of coffee. “Somebody shot Johnny White today.”
Danny stood holding a serving spoon over the chicken pot pie. “I saw it on the news. Tell me the SOB’s in custody.”
Arn shook his head. “Oblanski has no clue who shot him. Every detective in the division’s been rattling doors all day, but not a solitary neighbor saw a thing.”
“Johnny alive?’
“Barely,” Arn answered. “Oblanski wanted to question him for a moment, but the surgeon said bringing him out of his coma for even a brief time might kill him.”
“Dammed shame. Johnny was a nice guy.”
“I didn’t realize you knew him.”
Danny served up supper and set the plates on the table. “After a sort. He’d stop me when he saw me walking the streets downtown. Ask if I needed anything. I guess he felt obligated, him being an Indian too.” He grabbed a plate of buttermilk biscuits and set them beside a stick of butter melting on a plate.
“This is pretty good,” Arn said after he’d blown on hot crust enough to sample it. “How’d you find time to cook between hanging drywall?”
“The drywall was easy. Getting the water heater hooked up was the hard part.”
“Great,” Arn said. “So we can take a shower tonight?”
“Not together, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
“It isn’t.”
“Good.” Danny carefully spread his napkin on his tattered sweatpants. “Who does Oblanski think shot Johnny?”
“Frank Dull Knife.”
“Indian down by the refinery?”
“Do you know everyone who lives here?” Arn asked.
“Unfortunately, I know him.” Danny filled their coffee cups and sat back down. “When I first blew into town years ago, I met Frank at a bar. He’s a Cheyenne from Lame Deer, up in Montana, and I’m Oglala Lakota, from South Dakota. We’re practically relatives, so I thought we had a lot in common. We had a few too many beers one night in a bar and Frank went nuts. He wanted to fight every white guy there, which I think we did.” Danny rubbed his misshapen nose. “After that night, my scrawny butt couldn’t take any more of his hospitality. Do you think he’s the shooter?”
“I just don’t know, Danny. It would make things so easy if he were.” Arn finished his pot pie and tossed the paper plate in the trash. “I feel someone wants the spotlight dropped on those three officers. Tell me, you were here when the Five Point murders happened. Could one of the street people have been the killer?”
“Anyone could have been,” Danny answered, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “as many street people as we get every summer. The newspapers could just as well have dubbed him the ghost killer. Not a single clue was left, if you believe the newspapers.”
“Same thing with Johnny’s shooting.”
“Then you better find this guy before he kills again.”
“Just what I intend doing,” Arn said. “As soon as I get a good night’s sleep.”