The St. Paul Conspiracy

by Roger Stelljes

  Mac had the whole third floor of the Summit Avenue mansion. It was a large space. She was a bit surprised that it was tastefully appointed with a large black leather couch with a matching love seat and two chairs. A big, weathered, antique trunk served as the coffee table. She perused a book shelf. He had a collection of mystery and military thrillers and was obviously a fan of John Sandford and Vince Flynn. Next to the bookshelf were two large, framed, autographed posters. One was of Kirby Puckett, pumping his fist, having just hit the winning homer in the eleventh inning of Game Six of the 1991 World Series. The other was Bruce Springsteen, the best ever.

  At the end of the living room on the right was the kitchen. It was small, had an old gas stove, a small fridge and microwave but not much else. There was barely room for the sink and cupboards. What caught her attention, however, was the door out to a small deck.

  The deck made whatever Mac was paying for the place worth it. The view was panoramic. To the right she had a view over the Mississippi River and the High Bridge. Straight ahead was downtown St. Paul, a perfect view of the skyline, as well as the Xcel Energy Center and Science Museum. To the left was the State Capitol, brightly lit. She imagined McRyan spent summer nights sitting on the deck, having a beer and surveying the city.

  She could still hear the water running when she walked back in and sat down on the couch and started thumbing through a Sports Illustrated.

  Mac took a quick shower, put on a pair of jeans and threw on a black mock turtleneck. Sally had stunned him. She was not unattractive at work. In talking with her at the Pub the night before, he realized that underneath the professional veneer was a very attractive woman. But it was clear how much she dressed professionally and was all business while at work.

  He stopped in his office and grabbed his notepad and then walked back out into the living room to find Sally sitting on the black leather couch. Mac grabbed his beer and sat down in one of the black leather chairs. “Pizza should be here in a few. Should we get started?”

  “Yeah. Other than Senator Johnson’s prints, anything new today?”

  “No.”

  Mac mentioned that the remaining neighbors hadn’t seen anything, and that the few people who’d threatened Daniels because of her work, didn’t look good.

  “Anyone else you haven’t talked to?”

  “A few people in Daniels’ neighborhood haven’t been home when we’ve knocked. They might be out of town. I’ve left my card. I’m sure we’ll hear from them eventually, although, at this point, I’d be stunned if anything came from it.”

  “So, it looks like the senator’s the guy?”

  “Looks that way,” replied Mac, grabbing his notepad and pen. “So, when we meet with the senator tomorrow, do you think Hisle will let him talk?”

  Just as Sally opened her mouth to answer, the doorbell buzzed.

  The pizza was a Classic Supreme with everything on it but anchovies and black olives from Classic Italian Pizza. Mac grabbed a cutting board from the kitchen on which to set the pizza. Plates, forks and napkins were grabbed as well, along with two more beers. The spicy aroma of hot pizza made both of them realize it was getting late and they hadn’t eaten. The pizza didn’t stand a chance. Once it had been devoured, they got back to business.

  Mac started pretty much where they had left off. “So, when we meet Johnson tomorrow, do you think he’ll talk or be a mute?”

  That was the $50,000 question. Would Hisle let his client talk? “Were this a run-of-the-mill murder case, probably not,” Sally said.

  “But this isn’t your run-of-the-mill murder case, is it?”

  Shaking her head, “No, it’s not.”

  Mac took a pull from his beer, leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “So, in this case, you think he’ll talk?”

  “Some.” She said this thoughtfully.

  He lowered his head and looked straight at her, “How much is some?”

  “Part of that will depend on what he, meaning Hisle, knows about the case.”

  “Meaning, how much the good senator has told him about it,” replied Mac, following Sally’s train of thought.

  “Exactly. I bet I’ve spoken to a hundred defense attorneys who have told me their client didn’t tell them everything. I’m not sure why the senator would be different.” Sally took a last drink from her beer.

  “Want another?”

  “Sure.”

  Mac got up to get her a beer but didn’t stop talking, speaking from the kitchen. He merely spoke a little louder to cross the distance. “So, if I’m hearing you right, what we get tomorrow will depend upon what Hisle knows about the case, and that’s probably based on what Johnson has told him?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “‘Not necessarily’? What do you mean?” Mac asked as he came back in and handed her the beer.

  “Well, Hisle might get some of his own information. I bet he or one of his lackey’s been working the department for information.”

  “That would be Lyman.” Mac replied, nodding. “He has friends in our department who could feel like they might owe him.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Sally, not understanding his point.

  “Lyman’s big time, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he’s also represented a number of cops over the years. He may be a defense attorney, and cops hate most of them, but not Lyman. He’s helped out a lot of police, and he hasn’t always charged his full fee.”

  “So… do you think any cops will talk?”

  “If any of them knew anything they might. But to the best of my knowledge Lich, Clark, and Green haven’t needed to use Lyman for anything.”

  “What about the chief?”

  “Well, Flanagan knows Hisle pretty well. They’re friends. But I don’t think he’d give Lyman dick.”

  Sally smiled. “Well I’d hope not. But what about information?”

  Mac snorted. “Touche, counselor.” Mac took a hit from his beer. “Let’s assume for the sake of argument that Hisle knows everything we know, or even what we suspect. Everything. The semen, time of death, no forced entry-the whole nine yards. ”

  “All right.”

  “Assuming all that,” Mac continued, “will Hisle let his client talk?”

  Sally thought for a minute. “Some.”

  Mac smirked. “Typical lawyer, won’t answer the damned question. I know you think ‘some,’ but how much? What’s he going to tell his client to do?”

  “He’ll probably allow the senator to answer questions about how he met Daniels and the nature of their relationship. He’ll probably allow him to admit they had sex because he’ll know we’ll probably match semen through DNA. He can’t be certain who she might have told about the relationship, so he’ll probably answer those questions.”

  “How about, ‘Have you told your wife about your affair with Daniels?’”

  “You should ask that question, but Hisle’ll tell him not to answer. That goes right to guilt and motive. Remember our theory the other day?”

  “That Daniels pressured him about his marriage, about a possible divorce, and maybe she didn’t like the answer.”

  “Exactly,” replied Sally. “That’d be motive right there. I’d be stunned if Hisle allowed Johnson to answer anything near that. He’ll say it’s irrelevant and all that shit, even though it is.” She picked up her beer. “The only way I could see Hisle allowing him to answer that question is if the senator had told his wife he was having an affair and she didn’t care or something like that. I can’t imagine Gwen Johnson going for that.”

  “No,” Mac replied nodding. “From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t seem like the type to put up with that. Plus, she wouldn’t have to testify on that point anyway would she?” Mac asked.

  “That’s right. Marital privilege.”

  “Anything else Hisle won’t let him answer?”

  “You guys might go down the path of encouraging the senator to come clean, basically cop a plea. It wasn�
�t intentional. It was a heat of passion type situation-the manslaughter path.” She took another drag of her beer, “However, if you get to that point, Hisle won’t allow him to answer. He’ll shut him down. We’ll have to charge him before he entertains that. Again, that’s if the interview goes that way.”

  Mac sat thinking for a minute, running this all through his head. “Okay. I’ve got a good feel for what happens if Hisle has all the info he needs. But what if he doesn’t. What if he’s flying blind?”

  “Hisle wouldn’t fly blind. If he were that blind, he wouldn’t have called the chief.”

  “Maybe he’s not completely blind, then. The senator’ll have given him some information. But you said it yourself-Hisle’s probably calling around the department, but he can’t get any information.”

  “You’re assuming he hasn’t gotten any,” she replied.

  “True.” Mac leaned forward in his chair. “But let’s assume he doesn’t.”

  “Then, he won’t let his client answer any questions until you tell him what you have.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that. I’d be happy to tell them.” Mac quickly replied. “What will Hisle do then?”

  “At that point, he’ll decide whether his client has anything to say.” Sally looked away for a moment, and then continued. “He’ll ask for some time to confer with his client.”

  “And then they’ll decide if he’ll answer any questions.”

  “Right.”

  “And if he doesn’t say anything?”

  “Then we’ll decide what to do. Charge him, continue to investigate, whatever. You can give them the standard line that this is his chance to get in front of this, but Hisle’ll tell him not to answer. If so, we’ll just have to see…”

  “But… we’ll know a lot more after tomorrow,” said Mac, finishing the thought.

  “Yes.”

  Lyman and the senator enjoyed a fine meal of steak, potatoes, Caesar salad, and red wine at Lyman’s house on the St. Croix. Following dinner they retired to the library to have a brandy, a cigar and talk about the case.

  “So, how do we handle this tomorrow?” the senator asked.

  “We’ll have to find out where they’re coming from, Mason.”

  “What if they won’t tell us?”

  “Don’t worry about that. They will. They want you to talk. Like I said, when I called Flanagan, he was getting ready to call you.”

  A frown came down the senator’s face, “If I read between the lines here, they have me in their crosshairs.”

  “Perhaps,” mused Lyman. “But they haven’t charged you. They haven’t put your name out there. Heck, my contacts in the department don’t even know who they have for a suspect.”

  The senator was skeptical. “These contacts, would they even tell you if they knew?”

  “The people I’ve called, yes. They owe me for previous services rendered.”

  The senator took a sip of his brandy. “So, if we find out what they have, what do I say?”

  “We’ll see. I may not have you answer questions at all.”

  “Lyman,” he growled, “I can’t do that. I do that and I’m done. I’m Gary Condit. The media’ll have a field day.”

  Lyman knew his friend. He was concerned about his career. He didn’t necessarily see beyond that, and that had to change if Lyman was going to help him. “Mason, I’ll do what I can to protect your career. But we have to see what they have.”

  The senator had a panicked look. “What? What the fuck are you saying, Lyman? What, you… you think I did this?”

  “NO!” snapped Lyman. The next part would be difficult, he knew, so he took a long drink, a slow drag on his cigar and walked towards his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. He exhaled slowly and spoke. “Mason, I’m with you, but we have to see what the police have. You didn’t do it. I believe you,” Lyman said, looking him right in the eye. “But look at the evidence they likely have. You were there that night. We have to assume they have the guy who saw you. Otherwise, how do they link you?”

  “Yes, I was there. What does that prove, Lyman?” the Senator growled, taking a chair.

  Lyman sat down next to his friend and continued. “In and of itself, nothing, but they’ll have your semen. It wouldn’t even be worth a fight on the DNA. They’ll get it.” Lyman took a drink. “Now, like I said-in and of itself that means nothing, but…”

  “But what would mean something?”

  “Time of death, forced entry, and if there was a robbery. If there’s a robbery or forced entry, and time of death is 4:00 a.m., you’re in the clear. You merely help them with their timeline. If this is the case, then the police say thanks, and nobody ever knows you were involved.”

  Mason Johnson looked hopeful for the first time. Lyman reassured him, “Your name came up. They have to talk to you. Simple as that. But if the evidence doesn’t point to you, you’ll be fine.”

  The senator sighed and nodded. “Look. I didn’t do it. I need to say that.”

  “And I may let you. But first, we need to see what they have.”

  Mac and Sally finished up with how to deal with Hisle and the senator around ten. Mac offered one more beer, and Sally accepted. She was easy to talk to. They talked about sports, politics, and lawyers. They had similar interests. They were both career focused. She wasn’t stopping at assistant district attorney. She had higher aspirations.

  Mac could feel his attraction to her growing. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time, and it was a nice change. He had ignored women since the divorce. It wasn’t that there couldn’t have been some. There had been plenty he could have taken home from the Pub. More than one had sauntered on up to make a pass at him, and he almost took a couple up on it. Sooner or later, he figured he’d finally break down and do it. But it never seemed right.

  Sally was interested. She was attractive as hell, with pretty dark-brown eyes and a bright smile. She was intelligent and liked to laugh, yet she had a little edge, some street to her-which he liked.

  She’d been checking out the Springsteen print all night. “So how’d you get Bruce to sign it?”

  “You like the Boss?”

  “Is there anyone better?”

  “No. I’ve never seen a better live performer.”

  She got up to look at it more closely. “So, how did you do it?”

  “A buddy of mine, Wren Frane, runs the non-hockey events at the Xcel Energy Center. He got me back stage for the second half of a concert. It was pretty unreal. I saw Bruce, Clarence, Little Steven come off the stage, and it was cool just to see them. Anyway, the arena had emptied, and Wren and I were the only ones left back stage. We’re just talking, concert’s been over for an hour, and here comes Springsteen out of the dressing room, looking to see if they can get a few more beers. Most everyone’s gone, but Wren scares up some brews, and the Boss says thanks. He sees the poster and asks if I wanted it signed.

  “No way!” Sally replied in disbelief.

  “Oh, yeah. Pure luck, but I met the man.”

  They transitioned to Helen Anderson. “She can’t be easy to work for,” Mac said.

  “That’s somewhat true. She’s demanding of everyone’s time and efforts. But at the same time, she generally let’s you do your job.”

  “Probably because she never did it herself,” Mac intoned.

  “Well there might be some truth to that,” Sally replied, smiling. “She’s more a politician than a lawyer.”

  Then they got to Lich. “By the way, where’s your partner?”

  Mac chuckled, “Dickey boy is on a date with Dot.”

  “Who’s Dot? Should I know her?”

  Mac shook his head. “No. I just met her this morning. She’s a rather, shall we say, buxom waitress at the Cleveland Grille.”

  “Ahhh. So, your partner’s on the dating seen, huh?”

  “That he is. I have to give him credit. His last wife absolutely cleaned him out.” Mac just shook his head.

  Sally looked around
the apartment. “It would appear you didn’t get cleaned out?”

  “We parted amicably.” Mac didn’t want to talk about his divorce. He’d caught his ex-wife having an affair with a married partner in her law firm. Mac threatened to expose the affair unless he got the better of the marital assets, which he had. To change the topic, he got up, picked up their empties and asked, “One more?”

  Sally looked at her watch, 11:30 p.m. “I’d like to, but it’s late.”

  Mac looked at his watch. He’d lost track of time, “Geez. You’re right.”

  They walked to the door, and Mac grabbed her coat, helping her put it on. She said, “Thanks.”

  “I’ll walk you down.”

  As they were walking down the stairs, Sally said, “So, you ready for tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” Mac replied enthusiastically.

  Sally picked up on it. “You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?”

  Mac looked at her. “You surprised by that?”

  “It’s a murder case. Yeah, a little.”

  “Tomorrow’s why you do this job. Cases like this don’t come along too often. I probably won’t sleep much tonight. But, yeah, as morbid as it sounds, I can’t wait. I can just feel the adrenaline flowing.”

  They were at her car. Mac stayed back a few feet. She reached in her purse for her keys and opened her car door before looking back. They stood awkwardly, staring at each other for a moment.

  Mac finally spoke. “So, I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Let me know how it goes.”

  “I will.”

  He held back. It didn’t feel right yet. Sally smiled at him and got in the car and started the engine. Before she closed her door, she said, “Good luck tomorrow, I’ll be thinking of you.” She closed the door and backed away from him, turned, gave him a wave and drove off.

  Chapter Ten

  “Good cop. Bad cop.”

  Mac, along with Lich and Captain Peters climbed into Mac’s Explorer, headed out of the Department of Public Safety ramp and worked their way quickly to Interstate 35E, driving north out of downtown St. Paul on their way out to Hisle’s place in Stillwater.