The St. Paul Conspiracy

by Roger Stelljes

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Flanagan continued. “I assume we’re in agreement that, at this point our prime, frankly only, suspect is the Senator.

  Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “Okay. Helen or I suppose Ms. Kennedy,” the chief looked at Anderson, who nodded. “Tomorrow we’ll need to start looking into what kind of access we can get to Senator Johnson’s fingerprints.” Then he turned to Mac and Lich. “Mac, as soon as you get that autopsy report, you and Lich are back in my office. We need to move very carefully on this one. We’re dealing with a senator. He doesn’t get favorable treatment, but we don’t haul his ass in here without having our shit together. Understood? And not a word to the media about this.”

  If you were in trouble with the law and you had money, Lyman Hisle was the man to call. His firm, Hisle amp; Brown had eighteen attorneys, all very busy. Busy attorneys were profitable attorneys. The firm’s offices were on the top floor of the World Trade Center in St. Paul. Hisle amp; Brown’s success had provided for plush office space, large offices, ornate furniture, and art. The offices proved a powerful aphrodisiac when recruiting lawyers and clients to come to the firm.

  Twenty years before, Lyman had started out doing largely criminal defense work. His success had led to a comfortable living for him, and his skills as a trial attorney had not gone unnoticed. Then he took on a sexual harassment case for a former client. Lyman had offered to settle the case for $150,000 prior to trial and was rebuffed by the employer. At trial, Lyman made the harasser look like a monkey in the witness box. The jury returned a verdict of $1.2 million. Following the verdict, Hisle amp; Associates, as the firm was known then, expanded its practice from criminal work to include personal injury and discrimination litigation, specializing in class-action lawsuits. The judgments and settlements were worth millions to the firm. As the firm’s founder and main litigator, Lyman had amassed an impressive fortune. Those lucrative judgments and settlements over a period of ten years allowed Lyman to do two things. One, enjoy an exceedingly high standard of living, and, two, return to the practice he truly loved, criminal law. He was the best in town and only took on interesting cases. The potential case of Senator Mason Johnson qualified.

  Lyman had known the senator for years and had been a frequent campaign contributor. The death of Claire Daniels had been on the news all day. That his friend might somehow end up caught in the middle of the case was a shock to the system. Lyman heard the senator’s recitation of the facts. He told them to sit tight for the time being; he would call them back.

  The quandary for Lyman was how to advise the senator. Maybe a drink would help. He went to the small wet bar in his spacious office. He dropped a couple ice cubes into his glass and poured himself a Scotch. Back at his desk, he sat in his leather chair, kicked his feet up and looked out his thirtieth-story office window south over the Mississippi River. He gave his options some thought. The key was whether the police had the senator’s name.

  As Lyman saw it, he could have the senator sit tight and see if the police connected him to Claire Daniels, the thought being that there was no sense admitting involvement prematurely if the police did not know he was involved. They might never connect Daniels with Mason. If he was to be believed, and Lyman did believe him at this point, he had nothing to do with her death. The downside was that, if the police did connect him, he looks guilty not coming forward. They would have to call him in. Additionally, it would get out to the media that the senator didn’t come forward. It could do irreparable harm to his political career. Gary Condit came immediately to mind. If there were a murder trial, not coming forward would not be good for a potential jury pool.

  The other approach would be to come forward voluntarily to the police. A man walking in front of Daniels’ place had seen him on the street. The police probably had the senator by now, and while reluctant to call him in, they would eventually do so. If they went in voluntarily, offering information they had available, it might prove to be helpful to the investigation. Going this route, Lyman could get them to play ball, keep Mason’s name out of the media. Lyman may be a defense attorney, but he had defended St. Paul police officers on numerous occasions. He knew Charlie Flanagan well and could ask for discretion and would get it. Flanagan was as straight a shooter as there was, and he had no love for the media. If they went this way, it could save the senator’s career. And if there were a trial, at least he’d be able to say the senator came forward voluntarily. If nothing else, he might look better in front of a potential jury pool.

  There was a knock on the office door. Summer Plantagenate, an associate specializing in criminal law, stepped into his office. She had assisted him on a number of occasions where he had represented St. Paul police officers. Her last couple of hours had been spent calling her contacts in the department.

  “Come in. Care to refresh?” Lyman asked, holding up the bottle.

  “Yes.”

  Lawyers. The only bar they ever passed was the one for a license to practice law. Lyman filled a glass with Scotch and walked it over to Summer, who had taken a seat in one of the deep leather chairs in front of Lyman’s desk. “Have your contacts been of any help?”

  “No,” she said disappointedly. “I tried every way I know how, but the people I know aren’t involved in the Daniels case.”

  “Have you learned anything?”

  “The detective running the case is named McRyan.”

  “Michael McRyan?”

  “Yeah. Do you know him?”

  Lyman smiled. “That I do. Mac’s fairly young, but he’s been a detective for a few years, I think.”

  “In any event,” Summer continued, “he’s met with Chief Flanagan twice today. The last guy I talked to told me that he heard McRyan was up meeting with the chief tonight, along with District Attorney Anderson.”

  “Anything else besides McRyan?” inquired Lyman.

  “They’re keeping a tight lid on this one. Nobody seems to know anything.”

  “Hmmmm. Does that seem unusual to you?”

  “Yes, a little.” Summer took a sip of her drink. “You can usually get something, but nobody involved directly in the investigation is talking.”

  “Do you think they have our client’s name?”

  “If I were going to Vegas, I’d say yes.”

  “Because nobody’s talking?”

  “Yes. That, and the fact that the district attorney is meeting with Flanagan. That’s not something that happens on a normal case this quickly.”

  Lyman got up and went over to the bar to freshen his drink. He raised the bottle towards Summer. She waved him off. He put the top back on the bottle. He sipped his Scotch and looked in the mirror over the bar. He walked back over to his desk and picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Jordan? Lyman.”

  Viper took the elevator up to the office. The boss would be waiting for a status report. Viper had worked for him for over twenty years, and the man always loved his status reports. It wasn’t that he tried to quarterback things. Nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, he always wanted to be informed. It’s why he had always been so successful, which had now made Viper a wealthy man and a loyal one as well. In fact, the boss had looked out for Viper for over the last twenty years. He’d do anything for the man.

  It had been an exhausting twenty-four hours, and he was ready to go home and get some sleep. It was always that way with a mission. The excitement, tension and adrenaline of it kept you going, as if there was no recognition of the time passing. However, once the mission was over, the exhaustion hit. And he was older now, and the recovery time would be longer. Good thing he didn’t often have to run these operations anymore. In fact, he’d thought he’d been done with them all together. Then Claire Daniels came snooping around, and he came out of retirement.

  As he walked in, the boss was sitting behind his desk looking at some papers. He saw Viper walk in and put the papers into a manila folder. He walked over to sit down on the couch, an
d Viper joined him. The boss was having a drink. He offered, but Viper declined. A drink might put him to sleep.

  “So, where are we at?” asked the boss.

  Viper smiled, “We’re good.”

  The boss gave him a long look, “How good?”

  “Like I said, we’re good. Real good.” Viper kept smiling, a tired smile, but he was smiling.

  “Ahhh, you’re telling me they already have the senator?”

  “Yes.”

  “The police did it all on their own, eh? We didn’t have to help them along at all?”

  “No. They found our guy this afternoon.”

  “Hmpf. That was quick,” said the boss as he took a drink.

  “The kid running the investigation seems to know what he is doing.”

  “So, this young McRyan seems on top of it?”

  “From a distance, yes. He’s young, but he seems to have the respect of those working with him. His partner is far senior but seems to work with him without a problem.” They sat in silence for a minute. Viper looked out the window towards the Xcel Energy Center. It was well lit, and the crowd was strolling in. Must be a concert, the Wild were on the road.

  Viper broke the silence, “What does your contact have to say?”

  “I haven’t asked, as of yet, son. I’ll be getting to that, I assure you. Whatever I find out, I’ll pass along.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Do you have anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then to bed with you. You look tired. Are you getting too old for this sort of work?”

  Viper gave the boss another tired smile and headed out. His bed was beckoning.

  Chapter Seven

  “Welcome to my world.”

  Mac pulled the Explorer in behind the bar. It had been a long and exhausting day, yet exhilarating all at the same time. His first truly “big” case and in the first day his prime suspect looked to be a sitting United States senator. “Top that,” he thought. He doubted anyone in the bar could.

  The bar was McRyan’s Pub, the other family enterprise and a true St. Paul institution. The Pub sat on West Seventh Street, just on the southern outskirts of downtown and one block from the Xcel Energy Center, home of the NHL’s Minnesota Wild. It was the favored watering hole of hockey fans, and the St. Paul police.

  Opened in 1907 by Mac’s Great-grandpa Pat, the Pub had a colorful history of serving drinks before, during and after prohibition. The during prohibition occurred in the now infamous Patrick’s Room, located in the basement and hidden behind what looked like a typical built-in wooden buffet one might find in an older home. A latch inside the middle drawer of the buffet opened the door into a large, hidden room. During prohibition, the police, politicians, and citizens together enjoyed illegal drinks and fun. Currently, the inside of Patrick’s Room was adorned with black-and-white photos of that colorful era, while the outside was marked by a plaque denoting the room’s colorful history. Patrick’s Room was now used for private parties, meetings, and cop poker games.

  Mac walked into the left side of the main level, a classic, old-fashioned bar, the counter of which stretched half of the length and width of the room, leaving barely enough room for people to stand three or four deep, as it was tonight. Behind the bar was a long mirror with MCRYAN’S PUB and a big green shamrock stenciled on it. Two retired cops were tending bar, pouring drinks and trading stories with the crowd, which, from the looks of it, was entirely made up of cops. The room was abuzz. There was plenty to talk about with the Daniels murder and the fifth serial killing.

  Most nights, when Mac walked in, he went in like everyone else, got a few, “Hi” and “How’re ya doings” as he worked his way through the crowd of cops. Tonight was a little different. He got looks, stares, and nods. He was working a big case, one people all around town were talking about. Undoubtedly, the boys would be looking to grill him for the facts on the case, his list of suspects, and, for those cops not involved with the serial killer, queries if he needed any help.

  He made his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a Guinness. He preferred darker beers, especially if he was only going to have a couple before going home. That was his plan, too. Mac took a long swig, saw a couple bar stools open up and grabbed one.

  “Mac, boy, mind if I grab a seat?”

  Mac turned to find an old family friend giving him a tired smile. Pat Riley was having one of his specials, a Dewers on the rocks. Mac suspected it wasn’t his first, and he saw in Pat what he himself might look like in a month if he didn’t clear the Daniels murder.

  Riles was heading the detail on the serial killer. After seven weeks of investigation, he looked worn down, tired and tonight, properly drunk. The stress could be read all over his large, round face. A big man, Riles was sixthree, with a developing pot belly and a large mane of black hair. His face was jowly, and his five o’clock shadow made him look Nixonian. His bushy hair was disheveled, his tie loosened, and his face pale except the dark circles around his eyes. It had been a long couple of months for him.

  Any cop in Pat’s position wanted more than anything to find the bastard who was killing these women. You lived with it twenty-four/seven. It consumed you, especially the longer it went on. Mac remembered his dad telling him that when he first start working a case such as Pat’s, there was a certain excitement. But, if it went unsolved, the excitement went by the wayside, replaced by stress and pressure. These mounted with time.

  Usually, the pressure started with the media. With a serial killer, the media pressure was constant, with daily stories and special reports. And now it was November 1st, a sweeps month for television. Investigative reports would be coming. The media pressure in turn created political pressure. Media stories scared politicians from the mayor down to members of the city council. Mac’s dad, Uncle Shamus, the chief and Captain Peters all said at one time or another: a politician would never, ever, find a better job. They would do whatever they could to keep it, too. Consequently, they all had an innate, almost instinctive ability to apply pressure on the police, the fire department-whomever-to provide cover for themselves.

  Naturally, when the media and the politicos got together, the pressure built on the detectives involved. Such was the case with Pat. The serial killer case was getting to him. Mac could see it. He was drinking more, sleeping less and looking beaten down. No wonder. The case itself brought tremendous stress and pressure. Add media and political attention, and it was understandable why one would be driven to drink.

  “Welcome to my world,” Pat said wearily.

  “It has been an eventful day,” Mac agreed.

  “Careful what you wish for, boyo. If your thing goes on like mine, it’ll wear on you.”

  “You look beat.”

  “Shit, this case is kicking my ass.” Riles replied, taking a sip of the Dewers. “You watch, it’ll do the same to you.”

  Mac gave a little chuckle, “It’s only been one day, Pat. It better not get to me yet, or I’m not long for this line of work.” Mac thought he might mention something more about Pat’s drinking, but quickly put it out of his mind. It wasn’t his place.

  “True enough. So, what’s up with your case?”

  This was tough for Mac. He’d love to tell Pat about the senator and what they had learned about Claire Daniels. About what the autopsy report might say in the morning. But the chief had been clear; he couldn’t tell anybody anything about the case. Not the media, not fellow cops, not even his dog. Mac, however, couldn’t shut out Pat completely. That wasn’t the way it worked either. Quietly, he gave him pretty much everything but the senator.

  “So, Pat, quid pro quo?”

  Pat took a long sip of his Dewers and said, “Fair nuff.” The fifth victim had been found in a vacant lot behind O’Neill’s Bar by a delivery driver. Like the first four, she had been strangled and sexually assaulted. The killer had used a Trojan condom when he assaulted the victim. Like all other victims, a smiley-faced balloon had been lef
t as a calling card.

  “So, it’s number five, eh?” Mac finished.

  “Looks that way.”

  Mac hated to ask, “Anything new?”

  “Notta, and that fuckin’ balloon,” Riles sighed. “Cripes, the guy’s mocking us with that damn thing.”

  “You guys trace the balloon?”

  “Yeah. You can buy them at forty-seven different locations in the Twin Cities by last count. No way to trace a specific balloon to a specific package or box. We’ve had guys go to all the stores, but we’ve got nothing.”

  “What about this victim?”

  “That’s one thing that’s a little different this time. This one was a CFO at a local company. The other victims weren’t professional, educated type ladies. We got a couple waitresses, one convenience-store clerk, and a gal who worked a drive thru. This one was a professional. So, that’s a little different. The rest is pretty much the same.”

  They talked for a few more minutes. Pat was running the show on the serial killer case and had had a few meetings with the chief. The mayor was putting the pressure on about the murders and wondered if increasing the detail or changing the detail leadership would be necessary.

  “What did Flanagan say to that?”

  “What do you think he said?”

  Mac smiled. “Told the mayor to go fuck himself, huh?”

  A small smile creased Riles face. “Yeah. I’m sure there was a certain level of political-speak involved, but that’s basically what he said. Of course, he can only do that for so long. We need to bring this sucker home.” Pat took another sip from his drink. “Man, do we need a break in this thing.” He shook his head and looked down.

  They chatted for a few more minutes. Pat was drunk. Mac made eye contact with the bartender and nodded towards Pat and made a steering motion with his free hand. The bartender returned the nod and scampered off. A minute later Bobby Rockford, a member of Pat’s detail, ambled over and offered Pat a ride home. Well, it wasn’t really an offer, it was a “try to drive and I’ll kick your ass” proposition. Pat, too tired to argue, took the last sip of his Dewers and headed out with Rock.