by Allan Evans
Cade looked at the card. The name read, “Marlin Sweetwater, Minnesota State Patrol, Executive Protection Detail.”
Got you.
Riding up to the Lineker & Marsh law offices, Cade silently cursed the inventor of elevator music. What piece of pond scum had decided that watering down the Stones classic, “Start Me Up,” would make the twenty second elevator ride more enjoyable? He jabbed the lighted 17 button again in the vain hope it would speed up his trip. Mercifully, the doors opened.
Richard Schusterman greeted him warmly. “Good to see you again, Mr. Dawkins. How can I help?”
“Could you get me into Jennifer Allard’s old office? I want another look at her power wall. There’s a photograph I’d like to see again.”
Schusterman’s face went from a smile to a frown. “I had to clear it out last week. We have a new partner starting today.” He motioned Cade toward the hallway. “But I have all her photos boxed in our storage room. We don’t throw away anything here. You never know when something will be needed.”
Cade smiled. “That’s how hoarding begins. Before long, you have twenty-year-old newspapers stacked to the ceiling in your bathroom.”
“We actually have a seven-year retention policy on all documents.”
“You know I was kidding, right?” Cade asked.
Schusterman laughed. “You’ll have to forgive me. The legal profession has never been known for its sense of humor.” He led them into a room with row upon row of shelved boxes. They turned down the fourth row and stopped halfway. “Here are the boxes from Jennifer’s office.”
They took out each of the boxes, pulling the covers to look over the contents. Three of the boxes contained the framed photos Cade was looking for. Sitting on the floor, he pulled each out, examined it, and stacking it next to the box. Jennifer Allard sure liked to have her picture taken. Toward the bottom of the first box, he found the picture he had come for. Allard, wearing a conservative business suit, was posed next to a smiling Governor Ritter. A number of people were scattered around the background, but Cade couldn’t recognize the setting. He handed the photo to Schusterman. “Do you know anything about this picture? Specifically, where and when it was taken?”
Schusterman nodded. “This was taken this year, maybe a little less than a month before Jennifer’s death. She was part of a roundtable discussion on women’s issues. The governor was there, as well as several prominent senators and congresswoman Betty McCollum. It was held at the Woman’s Club of Minneapolis near Loring Park.” He handed the photograph back, a frown clouding his face. “And you believe this event is connected to Jennifer’s death?”
“There’s a remote possibility, however I need to request your discretion on this.” He stacked the frames back in the boxes and stood up. “Can I hang onto this photo?”
Schusterman opened the storage room door. “No problem. Since she didn’t have any family, it won’t be missed. I just hope it helps.”
Cade shook his hand. “Me too.” Cade looked around. “Where are the stairs?”
Schusterman looked confused. “The stairs? We’re on the 17th floor.”
Cade shrugged. “I have a thing about elevator music.”
Laughing, Schusterman pointed across the hall.
“I have something.” Rob’s excitement was evident in his voice when he picked up Cade’s call. “Stephanie Harding worked as a sales rep for Medtronic, selling an implantable medical device for chronic back pain. Well, it turns out Ritter has had back issues for years and had one of these devices implanted in January. It worked so well, he visited the Neuro division a month ago to meet all the people responsible. Apparently, they made a big deal of it. Brought in food, had all the senior executives there for speeches and gave out special bonuses for each and every Neuro employee.” Cade heard the sound of shuffling paper. “Since she started with Medtronic in January, Stephanie Harding would have been there.”
“That sounds like a promising connection.”
“If Ritter planned to make an appearance, he would have had his protection detail do an advance sweep. We can’t say for certain it was Sweetwater, however. I’m sure we can pull the duty logs and confirm it was him.”
Cade swung his truck around a slow-moving sedan and turned onto Robert Street. “We may not have to. I was able to put Jennifer Allard at the governor’s appearance at the Woman’s Club of Minneapolis in January.”
“Nice work,” Rob commented.
“It gets better,” Cade said as he hit the entrance ramp to 35E. The FJ Cruiser made a satisfying roar as it sped down the ramp. “Holly Janek planned an event where the governor was supposed to attend. The fact that Ritter never actually made it there only helps us. The advance security reconnaissance trooper left his business card. It was Marlin Sweetwater.”
“Now we’re talking,” Rob’s enthusiasm came through loud and clear. “That links him with four of our victims. Allard, Janek, Harding and Spring.”
Cade passed the Roselawn exit as he headed up 35E. “Hang on, I know we said Ellie Winters was so high profile, most everyone knew what she looked like. But have you found a link there? Had she crossed paths with the governor?”
“While she worked events, they were never the same ones as Ritter. She was at promotional events, while he would be at fundraisers and causes. No, they lived in different worlds. Winters was all about the nightlife, working a lot of promotions at the clubs in downtown Minneapolis and some of the larger suburban ones.”
Cade laughed. “No, I doubt Ritter frequented the dance clubs.”
Rob cleared his throat. “What about your girlfriend? The killer reached out to her as well.”
As he took the looping expanse of ramp onto eastbound 694, Cade pondered the question. “She’s even more high-profile than Winters being on camera every night. It’s obvious she fits his profile. But yes, she would have many opportunities to cross paths with Ritter and his security detail.”
“We have enough to bring to Capt. Rejene. We should read her in.” Rob said.
“I’m five minutes out. Let’s discuss it when I get there.” Feeling the urgency, Cade darted past a cluster of vehicles merging onto 694. His speedometer climbed above 80 mph. Each second ticking on the clock brought them closer to the case’s conclusion.
Reynolds DeVries was running late for her afternoon yoga class. Again. The one nice part about working later hours was the flexibility to hit the gym early and avoid the crowds. Keeping in shape was an important component of her daily regimen. Unless you were at the absolute top of the news business, women were always held to ridiculous standards of appearance. It wasn’t a level playing field for men and women. Men seemed to be given a pass as they aged, while women were often pushed out of the top spots when they begin to show signs of aging. Of course, the wave of high definition television screens had changed everything—but not in a good way. Reynolds read about television actresses in their forties who often had in their contracts that they were to be shot slightly out of focus. So, wanting to be proactive, yoga class was on Reynolds’ schedule.
Grabbing her keys, she stepped out into the warm spring air. Reynolds pulled her door shut, locked it and turned around.
The Taser hit her hard. Intense pain joined an alarming mix of muscle spasms, confusion and involuntary movement as she lost all control of muscle function. When the five seconds of electrical charge was over, the killer lifted Reynolds to her feet. “If you fight me or scream,” he hissed into her ear, “I’ll shock you again.”
Reynolds was beyond panic. Each of the five seconds felt like ten minutes as the electricity coursed through her. It was like hundreds of plastic baseball bats were hitting her in the back thirty times a second. She would do almost anything to avoid a repeat episode. “No, please no,” she pleaded.
The killer propelled her forward, a dark green minivan with an open side door in front of her. “The barbs are still in, so cooperate or be shocked. Your choice.” It was no choice really, and Reynolds climbed into t
he rear seat, feeling the soreness of each and every one of her muscles. She was used to thinking on her feet—being a broadcast journalist taught some important life skills after all—however being zapped and trapped by a serial killer was beyond her current coping skills.
Cade ushered Rob into Capt. Rejene’s office and pushed the door shut. Her eyes darted between them. “You have him. Tell me you have him.”
Cade nodded.
“Thank God,” Rejene announced as she slammed a fist on her desk. “Our nuts have been in a vice.”
Rob leaned close to Cade. “Our boss has nuts,” he whispered. Cade shook his head.
Rejene looked at Cade. “Who is it?”
Clearing his throat, Cade glanced at Rob. “There’s good news. And bad news.”
“Give me the bad first.” Her brown eyes looked at him impatiently.
Cade sat in the chair across from Rejene. “He’s State Patrol. Name is Marlin James Sweetwater.”
“We are so screwed,” she said shaking her head. “Yet, you say there’s good news?”
“Sweetwater’s on Governor Ritter’s staff. Executive Protection Detail.”
A hint of a smirk colored Rejene’s face. “This is good. I can work with that.” She leaned back and folded her hands behind her head. “This is the kind of leverage that will save our butts.”
Cade ran Rejene through the connections tying Sweetwater to each of the victims. For her part, Rejene listened and jotted notes as he spoke. Her phone rang several times while they talked, but she ignored it and focused on the evidence trail Cade laid out for her.
“What should our next step be?” she asked. “We can grab him now or get in front of a judge first to get a search warrant to look for evidence of his crimes.”
Cade nodded. “He’ll have souvenirs. Research shows this type of pattern killer often takes something from each victim. Something of use to embellish their mental reliving of their kills. I’d put the odds pretty damn high Sweetwater has a stash of mementos hidden away. It may not be at his residence, but he has it somewhere nearby. Maybe a storage locker or a bolt-hole.”
“Bolt-hole?” Rejene asked.
“A place where the killer can get to quickly to hide out if his plans go south on him. Serial killers are extremely cautious and their instincts for self-preservation are unparalleled. He’ll have someplace set up to hide and buy time should he need it.”
Rob spoke up. “Either way, we need to get Sweetwater under surveillance right now. We can’t have him skipping on us.”
Rejene spun around and got on her computer. “I’m going to pull his state employment file. We’ll get his personal history, work records and posting schedule.”
Rob looked surprised. “You can get that?”
“You bet your sweet ass I can. You don’t work your way up through the ranks without making some well-placed friends and learning a few of their best tricks,” she boasted. Cade caught her smug smile and decided his opinion of her ticked up several notches.
Cade learned early in his law enforcement career that his new world wasn’t nearly as black and white as he’d expected it to be. Cops survived and thrived by living within the copious shades of gray. It was a matter of looking at the greater good, the result you were reaching for, and then deciding just how far you were willing to go for the result.
The critical point was the line, however. There is a line—albeit a moving one—that you don’t cross. Honoring your badge meant staying on the right side of the line. Over the years, Cade knew the line well because he’d treaded close enough to smell the actual line.
Rob moved behind the desk, joining Rejene at the computer. “He lives in the Frogtown area,” Rob pointed out. Frogtown was the name given the St. Paul neighborhood surrounding University Avenue to the west of the capital. “Geographically, that fits with the murders.”
“You mentioned work history,” Cade asked. Rejene looked up from the screen and nodded. “How long has he been with the patrol?”
The light from the screen lit up Rejene’s dark eyes as she studied the display. “It looks like he’s been with the state for about five months. Transferred in mid-November.”
“Transferred?” Rob quizzed. “From where?”
Cade leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Chicago. Chicago PD.”
Rejene ran her finger down the display. “Yeah. Chicago police. Sweetwater was with them for six years. He worked as a patrol officer and promoted to field training officer after four years on the job.” She looked up at Cade.
“The Chicago detective, Martinson, was the final victim of a series of murders in Chicago last year. A tip from an anonymous patrol officer had set him up.”
Rejene nodded grimly. “So, this is our guy.”
Rob cleared his throat. “Boss, look at this.”
Rejene leaned over. “Crap. He’s put in for another transfer. To Albuquerque.”
“He’s started his exit strategy,” Rob said. “We need to get a team on him ASAP.”
“His duty roster shows him off both today and tomorrow. We’ll have to catch him at home.” Rejene tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ear. She glanced up; her face wore the sort of expression the Titanic captain would’ve had after realizing the ship could actually sink. “We can’t lose this guy.”
“There’s something you both are forgetting,” Cade offered as he leaned forward. “Maybe Sweetwater isn’t ready to skip town quite yet. He hasn’t made his big play.”
Rejene moved around to the front of her desk. She folded her arms. “What big play?”
“You have to think like him. This is a game for Sweetwater. The entire run of kills and tips to Reynolds DeVries was designed to pull the Patrol in. To pull me in.”
“Why you?” Rejene prompted. “No offense.”
Cade grinned. “None taken. “These killers are all about patterns. The first kill may not be perfectly choreographed. But, inspired by the intense satisfaction the killing produces, he starts to plan each one out in earnest. Killings become a pattern the killer can’t depart from. As he perfects his trade, his future victims may increasingly undergo a more torturous, orchestrated, even ritualistic death.”
“Patterns. Got it.” Rejene shrugged.
“It’s all about the patterns. Look at Martinson. He was widely recognized as a genius for his breaking the Syrian terrorist case. Lots of media attention for solving the biggest case Chicago had seen since Capone. Martinson was a star. And he was absolutely brutalized in a public display by the killer. After that, the killer killed no more.”
“In Chicago, anyway,” Rob added.
“Exactly. He moves north, establishes a pattern even a blind detective couldn’t miss, and makes damn sure I’m involved. No bragging, but I received a lot of media attention for bringing down Bishop. They promoted me as the poster boy for smart law enforcement. No way Sweetwater would have missed the story in nearby Chicago. So, now he’s up here killing again—and the bastard actually called to taunt me. Without a doubt, I will be his final target.”
“Okay,” Rejene paused. “We’re going to be cautious with this. This has to be a tight group; no word can leak out. If either the media or Sweetwater gets wind of our surveillance, he’s gone and we’re screwed. We’ll all be riding Segways at the mall chasing shoplifters.”
Rob shook his head. “I don’t like this. Cops like to talk.”
“The Patrol doesn’t,” Rejene replied. “Really. When the feds want to close a bank, why do you think they use the Patrol? They need absolute confidentiality or there’s a run on the bank. We can put troopers in place without a single word leaking. Ever.” She looked between the two investigators. “Okay, you two head for Sweetwater’s neighborhood and establish his location. I’ll put together a team and get them rolling in your direction.”
Rob stepped out from behind Rejene’s desk. “Got it. Let’s roll,” he said to Cade.
They walked out the front entrance, headed for their vehicles. “I’m going
to catch up with you,” Cade said. “Now that we know more about our killer, I want to reconnect with my BCA forensics contact. Grace can help me get into his head, maybe figure out his endgame.
Cade found her in the BCA crime lab where she spent most of her days. When she wasn’t on scene, Grace was a lab rat of the highest order. Before Cade left the BCA, he’d often physically drag her out of the building, telling her he was medically concerned about her lack of vitamin D. Together, they’d taken daily walks to nearby Lake Phalen and discussed life.
“Hey, Grace,” he announced as he pushed through the door. “Time to get outside and play.” She looked up from a stack of papers and grinned.
“Everyone needs a little sunshine in their lives. Especially someone who looks at crime scene evidence all day,” he said offering his arm. “Now, let’s go chat about serial killers.”
Grace batted her eyes. “How can a girl refuse such a fine offer?”
They’d just rounded the corner of the building when the rumble of thunder broke the late afternoon calm. Cade stuck out his hand, palm up, in the near universal gesture of checking for rain. “This might be a short walk.”
“You are such a wuss,” she teased. “A little rain won’t hurt.”
Of course, it wasn’t a little rain. A flash of lightning and a roll of thunder were followed by a torrent of rain. Grace let out a squeal and grabbed Cade’s hand, pulling him toward the loading dock area at the back of the building. They jumped up on the platform and leaned against the brick wall, protected by the overhang. The rain came down in sheets, the visibility reduced to a dozen feet.
Cade glanced at Grace, as they stood shoulder to shoulder, a drop of water hung precariously from her nose. “I have to work on my timing.”
“My sentiment exactly,” she offered. She laughed and Cade joined in.
