First Deadly Conspiracy Box Set

by Roger Stelljes

  Smith turned to the task at hand. He’d chosen the park weeks ago. Set in an older neighborhood on the southern end of town, it was pleasantly empty, as it had been when he first visited. Nonetheless, Smith wore a baseball cap pulled down tightly, wraparound sunglasses, and a nondescript outfit of jeans, a plain white T-shirt, orange reflector vest, and tan leather work gloves. He carried an orange toolbox containing a variety of tools including screwdrivers, wrenches, and a hammer. To anyone walking by, he would look like a run-of-the-mill city maintenance worker.

  The pay phone sat on the wall outside a small, octagonal cinderblock building that served as a warming house for ice skaters in the winter. He checked the door of the building, which was locked. He looked through the metal-grated window to make sure it was empty inside. It was. Scanning the area around the park, he noted only an older woman walking her yip dog on the far side of the park at least a hundred yards away.

  With the park clear, Smith opened his toolbox, took the top tray out and pulled out a roll of quarters and his voice-masking device, which he placed over the phone. He dialed the number for Flanagan. The chief of police picked up on the second ring.

  “Flanagan.”

  “Hello, Chief, and greetings to the many members of the Federal Bureau of Investigation listening in. Good day to you all. Chief, we want five million dollars total for your daughter and for Shannon Hisle. The cash is to be in non-sequential hundred-dollar bills. No dye packs or GPS tracking devices. Keep it simple and comply. You have until 6:00 p.m. tomorrow. We will call your office phone at that time with instructions for the drop.”

  “What about our daughters? I’m not giving you anything until I speak with my daughter live on the phone.”

  “Sorry, Chief, but that isn’t possible now. If you go to Griffin Stadium at St. Paul Central High School and look under Seat10, Row 15, Section C, you’ll see why. We have a little gift for you that will, I think, motivate you and Mr. Hisle to meet our more than reasonable demands. Good day.”

  Smith cradled the phone, took off the masking device, and kneeled down to reassemble his tool box, closing the top and fastening the latch. He walked briskly back across the street and through the alley. Dean saw Smith approaching and started the van. Once inside, Smith checked his watch. The walk back to the van took a little over a minute. Dean pulled out onto the street, turned left, and traveled four blocks north. As he waited at a stoplight, a Duluth police squad car roared through the intersection, rollers and siren going, heading in the direction of the park.

  “Could be something else,” Dean said, noting the pensive look on Smith’s face.

  Smith simply nodded as he contemplated their next move, noting the swiftness of the police response, if that was in fact what it was.

  “I want to make sure. Let’s take a more leisurely drive back,” he said as the van merged onto Interstate 35 south a few minutes later.

  Dean nodded and took the bridge east on Highway 2 over St. Louis Bay, crossing over to the city of Superior on the Wisconsin side. The group drove back south toward the Twin Cities on Wisconsin’s quiet State Highway 35 instead of Minnesota’s popular Interstate 35.

  • • • • •

  “McRyan,” Mac said, answering his cell phone with a yawn.

  “Where are you at?” Burton asked.

  “Just south of downtown on West Seventh.”

  “Meet me at Griffin Stadium.”

  “Griffin Stadium? At St. Paul Central High?” Mac asked quizzically. “What the heck for?”

  “Kidnappers left a gift for us. And we have the ransom demand.”

  Two minutes later, Mac was weaving in traffic again, the siren moving traffic.

  “Five million dollars?” Mac said skeptically, turning a hard right onto Lexington Parkway and heading north. “That’s light.”

  “What do you mean light?” Lich asked, confused.

  “Split three ways, maybe four, that’s not that much money,” Mac said. “Four ways, my Cretin High School math tells me that’s $1.25 million per.” He shook his head. “Odd.”

  “Maybe to you,” Lich said, “but to me, I could make $1.25 million go pretty far. Especially tax-free.”

  “Yeah, after alimony, you’d have a buck twenty-five left,” Mac snickered.

  “Smart-ass.”

  “All kidding aside, think about it. You kidnap the daughters of the chief of police and a high-priced lawyer, and all you ask for is five million for the two?” Mac questioned. “I don’t buy it. All that risk for that little reward, relatively speaking. I mean, in reality, Dick, a million dollars isn’t that much. A nice house with some equity, some money in a retirement fund or two, a little inheritance, and you’re there. I mean, five million split between three or four people just isn’t that much.”

  “If you say so,” Lich replied. “You’re the one with the money, so you should know.” Mac did have money. He had invested in a coffee business with two high school friends a number of years ago. There were now twenty-seven Grand Brew Coffee Shops with more on the drawing board. While a minority investor, Mac’s ten percent investment left him sitting pretty. It was one secret Lich had managed to keep. Mac didn’t want everyone on the force to know that he was going to be—in fact already was—wealthy.

  Lich changed topics.

  “God, the air conditioner feels good,” he said, wiping the sweat beads from his bald head. Sweat had already filtered through his fresh red Hawaiian shirt. He looked like Norm Peterson on a Cheers episode. “And not a cloud in the sky. We’re gonna bake today.”

  “Grab the white beach cap in the back seat,” Mac replied. “It’ll help keep your head cooler.” Not to mention that the last thing Lich needed was a sunburned head.

  “God, it feels like this is all I’ve done for the last twenty-four hours,” Lich said, reaching in back. “Run around.”

  “That’s what the kidnappers want,” Mac said, decelerating hard as he approached a left turn onto Marshall Avenue, with St. Paul Central High School on his left. Mac turned in front of the school, drove past the front door and smoothly turned right into a parking lot behind the football field. Two squad cars were there already, as well as a Tahoe from Forensics. The uniform cops had crime scene tape up, creating a perimeter. A guard waved the Explorer through a break in the tape.

  As Mac hopped out of the Explorer and looked back, Riley, Burton, and the others pulled in. He noticed a few media types already loitering against the tape, including Heather Foxx, who was still looking good in that white sleeveless blouse. Her tastefully short, black skirt hugged her hips and revealed her tan legs. Heather looked happy. The Wiskowski tip put her well into first place in the morning media game.

  “Mac?” He turned to see his second cousin Tip, a patrol cop, pointing to the football bleachers. “Up in the stands.”

  Mac, Lich, and the rest hustled through the tunnel in the middle of the grandstand and then up the bleachers to the spot just in front of the press box, where a tech was taking photos, dusting for prints, and evaluating the package. Wrapped in clear plastic, it hung underneath a wood bleacher like a bat in a cave. Mac walked down the row just below where everyone was hovering. He crouched down, took off his sunglasses, and looked underneath. “What do you see?” Burton asked.

  “Laptop,” Mac answered, noting the red and blue inputs on the back. The laptop was held to the seat by duct tape, which looked to be covering Velcro straps.

  “Any prints?” Burton asked the crime tech.

  “Nada. It’s clean,” was the curt reply from the tech.

  “Not even on the tape or the plastic?” Lich asked. The tech just shook his head. The kidnappers weren’t leaving them anything to work with.

  “Are we canvassing?” Riles asked, wiping sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand.

  “I’ve got bodies coming, yours and ours,” Burton replied. “We’ll blanket the neighborhood, see what turns up.”

  Mac snorted and shook his head.

  “Got t
o do it, I know, but it’s a big fuckin’ waste of time,” he said.

  “Never know, someone could have seen something,” Burton said.

  “You really think so? These guys haven’t left us anything up to this point,” Mac replied in disgust.

  Burton exhaled and shook his head.

  “No, but like you said, gotta do it.”

  “What about the laptop?” Lich asked. “Want to look here or downtown?”

  “Downtown,” Burton replied. “I want my people taking a look at it. I’m guessing we have video.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “How are they going to breathe?”

  Channel 12 broke into its early afternoon soap opera for a special report. The tanned, toothy, and well-coiffed anchor Paul Phillips walked the lead in.

  “We’re cutting into our regular programming to bring you breaking news about the kidnappings of Carrie Flanagan, daughter of St. Paul Police Chief Charlie Flanagan, and Shannon Hisle, daughter of prominent St. Paul attorney Lyman Hisle. Right now we’re going to Channel 12’s Heather Foxx in St. Paul, who’s been tracking this story for us. Heather.”

  “Paul, we’re at the St. Paul Police Department headquarters, where the FBI and police have just arrived with a laptop computer found under the stands in Griffin Stadium at St. Paul Central High School,” Heather said perfectly to the camera. She loved doing this on the fly, the rush of excitement, pulling it off without a hitch. Reports like this got you a network or cable gig, she thought, when you were quick on your feet, looking good, totally under control, regardless of the adrenaline pumping through your veins. “And, in another Channel 12 exclusive, we’ve learned that the police have received a ransom demand for the two girls.”

  “Do we know what the ransom demand is, Heather?” Phillips piped in.

  “At this point, no, Paul,” Heather answered. “We’ve been unable to learn the amount.”

  “Did the FBI and police learn of the ransom demand from the laptop, Heather?”

  “No, Paul. The ransom demand was received by phone. At that time the authorities were apparently directed to the laptop at Central High.”

  “Do we know what is on the laptop?”

  “No, we don’t. It is my understanding that the police were bringing it back here to analyze it.”

  “Heather,” Phillips asked, tacking in a different direction, “what about the police and FBI takedown in Northfield that you reported earlier? Any further developments?”

  “The police have released Drew Wiskowski, although his son Steve is now in custody. However, it appears that neither of them are involved in the kidnappings of Shannon Hisle and Carrie Flanagan,” Foxx answered.

  “Well,” the anchor smiled, showing unnaturally white teeth, “it has indeed been a busy day for the FBI and police.”

  “Indeed it has, Paul,” Heather replied seriously. “They continue to ask for the public’s help, particularly with regard to the vans and the descriptions we have of the kidnappers.” The pretty reporter provided the now-familiar general description of large men, likely dark hair, operating in delivery or panel vans common throughout town. Foxx finished by providing the phone numbers to contact the police and FBI and then signed off.

  “Reporting from the St. Paul Police Department, this is Heather Foxx, Channel 12 News.” She held the pose for a moment and then her cameraman waved her off.

  “Nice report,” he said.

  “Thanks, but cripes it’s hot,” she replied, wiping a film of perspiration off her forehead.

  A Channel 6 van pulled up, and reporter Scott Crossman climbed out of the van in a navy blue, button-down collar shirt and blue tie. His dress shirt was sticking to his body, and sweat rings showed around his pits and collar. He wasn’t going on camera any time soon.

  “Christ, Heather, who’s your fucking source for this stuff?” Crossman was pissed, but there was admiration in his voice.

  • • • • •

  The detectives and agents filed into the conference room and set the laptop on the conference table. The chief and Lyman wanted in, but Burton, with the help of Peters and Riley convinced them to wait outside while the group took the first look. The mayor, for reasons Mac couldn’t quite figure out, joined them. An FBI tech with rubber gloves and a lab coat flipped the top open to the laptop. He spent the next few minutes checking the laptop keys for prints. Not surprisingly, there were none. While the techs worked, the rest watched Heather Foxx’s report.

  “She has a good source,” Burton said.

  “She usually does. She bats her eyes or loosens a button or two on that blouse of hers, and some puppy-eyed cop spills the beans,” was Mac’s wry reply.

  “Speakin’ from experience, Detective?” the mayor asked, his tone just a little accusatory.

  “If that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Mac replied, not looking up from the laptop. He heard the mayor snort behind him.

  “You will live dangerously,” Lich warned in a quiet, albeit amused voice as he leaned over Mac’s shoulder.

  “So what do we really have here?” the FBI tech said as he powered up the computer. The laptop was a Compaq and looked new.

  “Can we track where the laptop came from?” Riley asked, looking at Mac.

  “I should think so,” Mac replied, and then looked at the FBI tech, a little edge in his voice. “Can you?”

  “Sure, we just need to take this serial number,” the agent answered, pointing underneath the computer, “and get with Compaq.” He jotted down the serial number and gave it to another agent. “It’ll take a little time to track it down,” he said to the group at large.

  “Pray they bought it with a credit card,” Riley replied.

  “I doubt we’ll be that lucky.” Mac replied.

  “Might get something,” Riley said pointedly. “We gotta have hope,” he added through clenched teeth, staring a hole through Mac.

  Mac read the sign: watch the negativity and stay cool. The chief was in the hallway, and he didn’t need to see his boys with their heads down. Sooner or later, the kidnappers would make a mistake and then the boys would capitalize, but only if they kept their minds open to the possibility. Mac exhaled, nodded lightly, and spoke more calmly.

  “We might, we might. If we can figure out when the laptop was bought and where,” he added, “maybe we can get something. They wouldn’t pay with a credit card, or at least one in their real names or names we could trace. But…”

  “But what?” Riles asked.

  “If they bought it at a Best Buy, Target, Costco, Wal-Mart, someplace like that,” Mac added, “we could figure out which register it was bought at and what time. Maybe we could get surveillance camera footage from the checkout.”

  “Think we can catch one of the men on the surveillance video?” Duffy asked.

  “Or the woman,” Lich added. “Let’s not forget about her.”

  “Depends. They might have had someone purchase it for them. But let’s check and see. Do you guys have access to that facial-recognition software?” Mac asked.

  “If need be,” a member of Burton’s crew answered.

  “Get on that,” Burton said. “Let’s track that computer down.”

  “So what’s on the computer?” Lich asked, pushing to get back on task.

  “Let’s take a look,” the FBI tech replied. He powered up the laptop, waiting for the screen to come to life. When it did, there was a video icon on the screen. The tech double clicked on the icon, and a video program opened up.

  The video began soundlessly with a view out the windshield of a vehicle, either a truck or a van, driving down a rough dirt road with knee-high grass and weeds between the tire tracks. There was taller grass, bushes, and scraggly trees in the background. The picture vibrated as the vehicle jostled into potholes or rocks.

  The time in upper right corner showed 9:09 p.m., the date July 2, the night before. It was dusk.

  After a minute of elapsed time, the dirt road wound its way toward a straight
line of tall trees. The road then turned left to run parallel with the thick tree line. The area was vacant with no activity.

  At 9:15 by the video clock, the vehicle abruptly turned right onto an overgrown path, its long grass matted down by what must have been only a couple of previous trips. The vehicle pulled up to a tree with orange tape tied around its massive trunk.

  The video went dark, and someone groaned in dismay.

  The picture came back to life ten seconds later, the time now reading 9:23.

  Lying motionless on the floor of the van was Carrie Flanagan on the left and Shannon Hisle on the right. Shovels and PVC piping surrounded them. Black ties bound the girls’ wrists and ankles. Both were blindfolded and gagged. They did not appear harmed or beaten, simply sweaty and disheveled. Hisle, still dressed in her café golf shirt and khaki shorts, looked pale. Flanagan still wore her jean shorts and a smudged white tank top.

  A too-familiar voice finally broke the deathly quiet of the conference room.

  “The girls are alive,” it said. The camera zoomed in on Flanagan and then Hisle for long enough to show that the girls’ chests were moving. “They have been drugged. They will probably awaken around the time you are watching this video.”

  Mac looked at his watch: 1:22 p.m.

  “Now let’s go see where they will wake up,” the voice continued, and the camera panned to the right to a black-clad man wearing gloves and a ski mask. He pulled a piece of PVC piping out from the right side of the van. The camera followed him as he turned his back on the camera and walked away, off to the right of the screen.