Deadly Stillwater

by Roger Stelljes

  “Yes,” Woodcock answered plainly. “I’d suggest you let the man pass.”

  Mac walked by the front desk, waving the others to follow, which they did.

  “Where are we going, by the way?” Mac asked, now that he was past the front desk.

  “The storage rooms you need are fifty-eight through sixty in the way back,” an attorney named Neumann replied.

  “There are three rooms?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cripes,” Mac groaned.

  “What can I say,” Neumann said, shrugging his shoulders. “Lyman’s had a lot of work over the years.”

  The storage rooms themselves were ten feet wide, fifteen or so feet deep. Each room contained a wall of white boxes. Lyman Hisle had practiced law for over thirty years, and at least the first twenty to twenty-five years of practice records waited here.

  Mac looked at the four people from Hisle’s firm and suddenly felt like Chief Brody in Jaws. Except that, instead of saying, “You’re going to need a bigger boat,” he was thinking, “We’re going to need a bigger crew.” He looked to Neumann. “How many more people can you get down here?”

  “Let me call Summer. I bet she’ll be able to get us more people,” he replied.

  “Do that,” Mac answered and then opened his own cell phone and dialed. It was early, but the voice he was looking for answered on the second ring. “Shamus, I need you to get as many old hands as possible over to Old Files on Highway 36.”

  “More cops?” Neumann asked Mac, a concerned look on his face.

  “Retired ones.”

  “I don’t know about that,” the lawyer started. “There’s privileged information in there…”

  Mac cut him off. “There’s no time to argue about this. They’re not going to do anything other than help. They’re retired detectives. They’ll know what’s important.”

  26

  “ We’ve got eight hours.”

  Carrie awoke and lifted her head, only to hit the roof on the box. Reality immediately set back in. She turned on the flashlight and shined it on her watch: 8:03 AM. They’d been in the box for somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-six hours now. No water or food for all that time, if not more, and Carrie could feel the weakness in her body, the dryness in her mouth as she moved her tongue around, trying to moisten things. She turned the light to Shannon, who started to stir. Shannon looked weak and groggy. Carrie shook her arm to bring her back.

  “Shannon, wake up honey.”

  Shannon didn’t move right away. Carrie shook her arm harder.

  “Shannon, wake up! Wake up honey!”

  Shannon slowly started to awaken. “Where are we?” she said weakly.

  Carrie turned on the flashlight and shined it around the box. Shannon was groggy, but her eyes opened wider and looked around and started to realize and remember where she was at. She rubbed her eyes.

  “Wake up, Sunshine.”

  Shannon managed a weak smile and whispered. “Nice try.”

  “Hey, I always try to operate as if the glass is half-full,” Carrie answered, rubbing Shannon’s arms.

  “Then you must be the most optimistic person to walk the earth,” Shannon retorted, more awake now.

  “We’re still alive,” Carrie proclaimed. “And as long as we’re alive, we’ve got hope.”

  “They better come soon then,” Shannon responded.

  Carrie held the light closer to Hisle. “Getting worse?”

  Shannon nodded as she pulled her legs up to her chest. “I don’t know how long I can go on like this.”

  Carrie knew that Shannon needed to stay awake. “Tell me about your diabetes.”

  “What do you want to know?” Shannon asked weakly.

  “Tell me everything you can. We’ve got time to pass. Nobody in my family has ever had diabetes. I think I had one friend who had it, but it didn’t seem like too big of a deal. My sense is that you have a worse kind.”

  “I probably do,” Hisle replied. “There are two types of diabetes, type 1 and 2.”

  “Is one worse than the other?”

  “Yes. Type 2 is the most common form, and most people who have diabetes have it.”

  “If you have type 2, what happens?”

  “With type 2, your body produces some insulin, but either it isn’t enough or the body doesn’t recognize the insulin and doesn’t use it right. Over time, if the body doesn’t have enough insulin or doesn’t use insulin properly, then glucose…”

  “Sugar?”

  “Right. When the body doesn’t use the insulin properly, glucose can’t get into the body’s cells and instead builds up in the blood. If that happens for long enough, the cells won’t function properly. Over time, if not taken care of, a person will get dehydrated and fatigued, and you can be more prone to infection. This could take weeks or months before those problems will manifest themselves. Sometimes people go a long time without even knowing they have that kind of diabetes.”

  “That’s probably what my friend had then,” Carrie said.

  “Probably,” Shannon answered, but then got quiet, “That’s not the kind I have.”

  “You have type 1 then?”

  Shannon nodded.

  “What makes type 1 worse?”

  “With type 1, my immune system has destroyed my insulin-producing cells in my pancreas so that my body doesn’t have the insulin hormone. That means glucose won’t move into my cells and instead, it builds up in my blood and I get high blood glucose.”

  “So you need to inject insulin then, right?”

  “Yes. I need to take insulin. Like I mentioned before, I take, or I should take, insulin every time I eat.”

  “How long have you had type 1?”

  “About five years. Generally, I’m really good about taking my insulin, but there are times where I’ve forgotten to bring it with me and of course the time I didn’t take it intentionally for a few days and got really sick. I’ve been thinking of going on an insulin pump but I didn’t like the idea of having this little machine attached to my body all day. However, right now I’m really wishing I’d gone to the pump.”

  “If your body starts to get out of whack what will happen?”

  “My body will start to break down. Eventually, I’ll get confused and start to shake. I’ll probably have issues breathing, rapid breathing.”

  “And maybe lose consciousness?”

  “At some point,” Shannon said, her voice down to a whisper, “if it gets really bad, I could go into a coma.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Let’s just try to keep talking. The longer I can stay conscious the better.”

  The review of documents at the off-site storage was slow and plodding. It wasn’t that people weren’t trying or they didn’t have enough people. They were and they did as Shamus brought the cavalry. It was simply a slow process. While there was a portable Wi-Fi point set up, the work took a lot of manual labor just to get the information into a place where it could be used. The group had to work through the archived files, pulling out the red-ropes, digging through pleadings, correspondence, memorandums, and depositions to find names and other key data. It was a massive and manic excavation of information.

  Once the group mined the data out of the files, the information was placed, via laptop and over the Internet, into a program that Hagen had quickly created over at Hisle’s office. The program was cross-referenced into the police and FBI databases that had been created for purposes of cross-referencing Hisle and Flanagan’s work on criminal matters. Hagen was now cross-referencing the information the group was finding with those FBI and police databases. Scheifelbein was doing his best to mask it at HQ and to keep the Feds from noticing.

  Mac immediately recognized how difficult the process would be. He immediately arranged for the Wi-Fi hookup and organized the operation as best he could. He had people work in teams, matching an attorney from Lyman’s firm with groups of the retired cops. The groups worked through the documents, th
e lawyers explaining where the parties, families, and witnesses could be found in the various legal documents. The cops would read through the information and determine what to enter into Hagen’s program.

  Riley called Mac from Lyman’s office to report that nothing had turned up as of yet, not even a nibble. He was sounding skeptical. “I don’t know Mac, we’re not finding anything. How much you got left?”

  “We’ve just started out here,” Mac answered. “We’re maybe fifteen to twenty percent into the files. It’ll take a while to get through it. There are hundreds of boxes in these three storage units. I mean, if you have a better idea I’m all ears.”

  Riles sighed. “I don’t. It’s just that the clock is ticking.”

  “I hear ya,” Mac answered as he looked out a window. The sun was now bright in the sky, and a look at his watch told him it was 9:56 AM. “We’ve got eight hours. Something will pop.” He didn’t know if that was confidence or hope, but he didn’t have a choice. They had started down this path, and they had to see it through. “What’s going on at HQ?”

  “Nothing like what we’re doing,” Riles answered. “Burton seems focused on the ransom and preparing for the phone call. Although…”

  “What?”

  “He did ask Peters about what we were doing.”

  “What did the captain say?”

  “He covered. Said we were on the safe house still. Peters thought it might be a good idea for us to make an appearance.”

  “I hate to break away from this.”

  “It’s what cell phones are for. Burton has called a meeting for eleven thirty. Peters said we should be there. We keep doing what we’re doing, but…”

  “We keep people from wondering where we are.”

  While Shawn McRyan watched anxiously, Jupiter Jones opened a computer program he developed to get as much out of pictures as possible. He set it to enhance the best frame of the reflection in the van’s rear window. The program worked slowly, but soon a new window popped up on the screen.

  “Is it done?” Shawn asked.

  “Let’s look.” Jupiter scrolled over the part of the picture with the reflection. The enhancement revealed a white receipt. On the screen, the label ran lower right to upper left and you could make out three letters reflected backward in the glass.

  “So we have an H, then a small a and n.” Shawn said.

  “And part of another letter,” Jupe added, pointing to a straight vertical line. “What has a straight line, lower case letters?”

  Shawn grabbed a scratch pad, quickly writing down the alphabet, “We got b, h, k, l, or t.”

  “What about d?”

  “I don’t think so,” Shawn replied shaking his head and pointing to the screen at the gap between the n and the next letter. “The gap between the n and the next letter isn’t wide enough for a d, so it has to be one of the other letters.”

  “Okay, so we have the PVC pipe, which is manufactured by Ampipe,” Jupiter said. “Now we have part of a receipt that’s likely from the store where they bought it.”

  “Maybe,” Shawn said. “They could have taken this out of the scrap heap for all we know.”

  “I doubt it,” Jupe answered. “The pipe looks newer. There aren’t scratches and the white color is bright, not yellowed or dirty. And we have a receipt sticking out of it. That wouldn’t be the case if you pulled it out of the scrapheap.”

  “You could be right,” Shawn remarked, putting his face closer to the screen.

  “Well, one way to find out is to see if we can get a hold of someone at this manufacturer and see who sells this stuff in Minnesota,” Jupiter answered, printing off a copy of the picture. “I’ve taken it this far. We need Mac or someone else to get us to that manufacturer.”

  Shawn sighed. “And today is a holiday.”

  27

  “ If I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s up to something.”

  11:03 AM

  Heather Foxx looked in her compact mirror, finishing a last bit of work on her eyelashes in the cool air conditioning of her television truck. She turned and looked through the windshield. Things were starting to percolate around the police department. In these times of a twenty-four-hour news cycle, the story had gone national quickly, especially since it was the Fourth of July. All the heavy hitters were hanging around — FOX, CNN, MSNBC, and the networks. Rather than simply doing puff pieces about parades and fireworks, there was hard news to cover.

  Given the potential exposure, Heather went back to her compact to check her makeup again. She wanted things perfect. You never knew who might be watching. As she applied just a touch more lipstick, her thoughts turned back to last night. What had Burton been doing? It could have been an old friend, a late night beer and a chance to reconnect, but that didn’t feel right. The conversation hadn’t seemed confrontational, but it didn’t appear overly friendly either, not like two old buddies sharing a beer and swapping stores. It looked like a colder conversation, a business one. Could it be someone involved with the investigation? Perhaps, but then why meet up in Forest Lake? Why not at the hotel or somewhere closer in town? Why drive miles out to a far-flung suburb? It was odd.

  And what exactly should she be doing with this information? She didn’t share it with anyone. What was there to share, after all? John Burton had a conversation in a bar with another man: alert the media.

  She could ask Burton about it, although he’d proven a difficult person to reach, keeping himself in the background and allowing the local FBI office and St. Paul Police to be front-and-center. She’d thought of approaching him in the bar. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d done something like that. For some reason, she held back. Intuition, instinct, whatever it was, told her not to do it. The whole event was strange, but without any context, it didn’t seem to mean much. But it did give her an idea.

  She pulled out her phone and dialed Gail Carlson, a veteran reporter who used to work the investigative beat, but now worked general reporting. She was at the station today, but not covering anything.

  “Carlson.”

  “Foxx. I need a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Monitor the police band up in the Forest Lake area today.”

  “Forest Lake, honey? Not exactly a hotbed of criminal activity.”

  “I know, I know. But all the same, monitor the jurisdictions up there, Forest lake, Chisago, maybe Wyoming.”

  “What am I listening for?”

  Heather explained. She wanted Carlson listening for anything about the bureau or St. Paul Police poking around the area.

  “Heather, what do you got?” Carlson asked, suspiciously.

  “Just a hunch.”

  Heather’s cameraman stuck his head inside the truck. “The scuttle-butt says there’s going to be a big powwow here soon: FBI, police, and so forth, and then a press briefing at noon.”

  “We best get out there then,” Heather replied, quickly signing off with Carlson. She stepped outside into the blazing heat, already ninety-three degrees. She decided that her suit coat was a no-go and jettisoned it. Besides the collar of her white, v-neck silk blouse plunged just enough to give a tiny hint of cleavage, which she knew would draw the attention she wanted.

  “What do you think they’ll be talking about in there?” the cameraman asked.

  “Word is there’s a call coming later today on the ransom. I haven’t been able to find out if there is a set time, or if they’re just sitting around waiting for it,” Foxx answered as they joined the gathering horde of media at the front of the police department. “There doesn’t seem to be much going on from an investigative standpoint.

  “You think that’s unusual?”

  “I’m not a cop, but I do think so,” Foxx answered. She watched as Mac McRyan pulled into the lot in his Explorer. His partner wasn’t with him, which was a bit unusual. “I can’t imagine Mac McRyan sitting around and waiting,” she said. “That’s not his style.”

  McRyan, rather than parking to t
he side and trying to avoid the media, approached the front of the building. This was rather peculiar as well, Heather thought. Despite his friendly little news tip on Wiskowski yesterday, McRyan loathed television reporters. He generally did everything he could to avoid them. Today he looked relaxed, almost cheerful. As he passed her he gave her a “Hiya, Heather,” and smiled. As he walked through the media crowd he was pleasant in saying, “No comment” and “I’m sure the department or bureau will have something to say shortly.”

  “Now that’s odd,” Heather remarked out loud as the doors closed behind McRyan.

  “What?” the cameraman asked.

  “McRyan just now.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was friendly, casual, relaxed — as if he wanted to be on camera. Heck, he gave me a wink, a smile and a hello. That never happens.”

  “Heather,” the cameraman answered, smiling, “ come on. Any man smiling at you, even Mac McRyan, is not unusual.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she answered, waving him off, but then looked him in the eye. “But it is for Mac McRyan. He thinks most of us are parasites.”

  The cameraman shrugged. “Okay. I’ll bite. What does it mean then?”

  Heather bit her lip and thought for a minute. “Friendly, casual, relaxed,” she said, tapping her index finger on her lips. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s up to something.”

  Mac stepped inside the building and stopped, letting the refreshing blast of the air conditioning wash over him. He found Riley, Rock, and Lich drinking coffee and waiting, and they all slipped into an interview room and closed the door.

  “Anything from down at the firm?” Mac asked.

  “Nothing helpful yet,” Riles answered, and then smiled. “But Hagen has them all working their asses off.”

  “And,” Lich added, “Whatever he’s doing works, I think. He’s got this program running, and whenever a name matches between the chief’s list and Lyman’s clients, it lets you know. At this point, what its finding is common last names like Johnson, Anderson, Peterson or Swanson. Now, a lot of them are eliminated because first names don’t ultimately match, or maybe a middle name eliminates them. In a couple of cases where there has been some sort of match, we’ve taken a look and eliminated them quickly. They weren’t even worth a phone call or interview. It was obvious there was nothing there.”