The St. Paul Conspiracy

by Roger Stelljes

  “Tomorrow will be exciting,” Sally said, while typing away, making a few changes. It had been fifteen minutes since she had said anything. Mac remembered how a law professor once said that a legal document is never written until it’s been edited and polished five times. Sally was proving that axiom a couple of additional times over. Focused and intense, the flirtations of the night before were suppressed. She was all business, and well she should be. Much of Mac’s work was over, but hers was only beginning. Not to mention that she would be going up against Lyman Hisle and Senator Mason Johnson. She had best get her game face on now.

  “Yes, hopefully I’ll avoid much of it,” replied Mac.

  “Not gonna happen. This is your case. You’ll be front and center.” He sighed. “I imagine so.”

  “Read through this one more time for me,” directed Sally as she left the office.

  The State of Minnesota vs. Mason Johnson. The complaint laid out their evidence, and the case looked solid. Mac wondered what Lyman would do to create reasonable doubt.

  Chief Flanagan had called to let them know that the senator would turn himself in voluntarily at 10:30 a.m. Mac and Lich were to be there. He would be processed like any other suspect. After that, a bail hearing was set for 3:00 p.m. The chief and Helen Anderson had also decided to do a perp walk. Mac didn’t like that.

  You did a perp walk when you wanted the public to see that you had arrested someone. This would involve walking the senator out in cuffs, putting him in an unmarked car and driving the five blocks from the Department of Public Safety Building to the Ramsey County Courthouse. Then he’d be walked into the courthouse in cuffs and would appear in front of the judge. The whole process would be on the news. There would be pictures in the paper, and the media would yell questions at the senator while he was cuffed. It would be a spectacle.

  Mac understood why the chief was doing it. It had been a hard week on the department and on Flanagan. Although he wasn’t good himself in front of the media, he knew that his department needed some good press. Especially since the serial killer had yet to be caught. Sylvia Miller probably would have pushed for the whole thing even if Helen Anderson hadn’t already approved it.

  Sally reappeared, and Mac got a little whiff of perfume. Was that for him or the result of a long day and wanting to smell fresh? “This looks good,” he said.

  “You feel better about the case now?”

  Mac nodded. “Yes.”

  “You should,” Sally replied, and then shifting gears. “I wish I could have seen the interview today.”

  “You know, this shouldn’t be the case, but…” Mac hesitated.

  “But what?”

  “It gave me a charge, getting to the senator the way I did.”

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I heard he called you an ‘arrogant fuck.’”

  “That he did.”

  Sally nodded. “I get the same feeling on a good cross examination. You get someone to admit something they didn’t want to or you box them in, and it feels good. You get a high from it.”

  “Exactly,” Mac replied.

  She took one last quick look at the complaint. She looked satisfied with it. “What time is it?”

  “12:15.”

  “Holy cow. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “Me to.” He helped her put her coat on. “Where are you parked?”

  “I’m across the street in the Vincent Ramp.” The Vincent Ramp, despite the efforts of its owners, was the darkest parking ramp around, with low ceilings, lots of pillars and plenty of places to hide. It wasn’t the safest place in the middle of the day, let alone after midnight.

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  The crisp, cool November air greeted them outside. It felt good after a night in Sally’s cramped and stuffy office. The Vincent Ramp was kitty corner from the courthouse. They took the elevator up to level four where her Camry was parked close to the elevator, under a light.

  “Where are you parked?” Sally asked as she unlocked the car.

  “Back at the department.”

  “Jump in. I’ll give you a ride.”

  They made small talk as they circled down to the ramp exit. It would be a short ride, five blocks. She took a right onto Wabasha and stopped at the light on Sixth, and her demeanor changed instantly. “So. Did my little outfit last night throw you for a loop?”

  Mac bolted upright from his relaxed position. It had then, and now she’d done it to him again. He did some quick mental gymnastics. He didn’t want to say no, since that would turn her off and he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to come off cheesy either. He decided she was back in flirting mode, so why not join in. “Let’s just say I noticed.”

  “Did you like what you saw?”

  No screwing around obviously. “Yes.”

  A little smile creased her lips. “I thought so.”

  She turned left and the Public Safety Building was on the right with the parking garage just ahead of them. Unfortunately, a lot of uniform cops were hanging out front. Mac knew them all. Wherever this little conversation was heading, it would have to wait. If they got close here, he’d never hear the end of it. She pulled past all the cops and up close to the parking ramp entrance. Mac didn’t give her a chance to go any further. He opened the door and swung his leg out before he looked back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Sally was smiling at him, the kind of smile that said you’re not going to get away so easy next time.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Where do you suppose he’s going?”

  Mac and Lich stood on the front steps of the Public Safety Building and watched as Hisle’s limousine pulled up punctually at 10:30 a.m. The media was punctual as well, having been camped out since the crack of dawn. The arrest was a national story, with all the networks and cable news channels present and accounted for. The local channels were there as well, battling as best they could for space. FOX politicos like Fred Barnes and Mort Kondracke were already opining on what impact the senator’s involvement would have on party politics. Mac could never remember seeing so many microphones and cameras or so much hair spray in all his life.

  Mac and Lich and a couple of uniform cops walked down to the curb. The senator would require an escort, not because Mac wanted any airtime, although Sylvia Miller kept saying it would be good for the department to be seen on camera arresting the senator, but more so because, if they didn’t, the media might crush him.

  Hisle got out first and issued a perfunctory, “Good morning,” to Mac and Lich. He examined the crush of media forming around them.

  “Sorry, Lyman, not much we can do,” Mac said as he leaned down into the open door to see the senator sliding over to get out. He looked back at Hisle. “Are you guys going to say anything to the media on the way in or-”

  “Just get us in,” Hisle replied.

  Mac looked back down at the senator, who was obviously not happy to see him. Mac ignored it. “Senator, when you get out, we’re just going to plow through them. Keep your hands on my back. Lyman’ll be on your side and Detective Lich and the uniform cops’ll be behind you.”

  The senator nodded and climbed out of the limo. Everyone looked ready, so Mac turned and headed up the steps, everyone right behind him. They plowed through the media. Mac was hit a couple of times by microphones, and he pushed a camera guy from CNN a little harder than he would have liked, causing him to fall to his knees, hearing a, “Hey, man,” as he pushed past. They eventually got inside, the doors closing the media out.

  “This way, Senator,” Mac said, pointing to an elevator that would take them down to booking. Johnson and Hisle had a brief discussion, and Mac heard Hisle say, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” That would be the arraignment hearing.

  The rest of the process, including pictures and fingerprints, took a good hour. Since the senator was going to the arraignment this afternoon and was likely to get bail, they didn’t put him in jail clothes. Once the processing was comple
te, Mac and Lich walked the senator to an isolated jail cell away from the rest of the general populace. He entered the cell and stood with his back to them, hands on hips, surveying his new temporary digs.

  “We’ll be down for you in a couple of hours,” Lich said.

  Mac and Lich took the elevator back upstairs. “I want to see if I have any messages,” Lich said. Mac chuckled, figuring Lich was looking for something from Dot. Old Dick Lick had a definite spring in his step the last two days. Instead of complaining about his divorce, he was focused on work and had been masterful the day before with the senator. Mac was starting to see why people said Lich had been a good detective. Lich’s new-found vigor caused his mind to briefly drift to Sally. She had been flirting again last night, and he’d basically admitted his interest. Bill Clark snapped him out of his daydream, handing him a pink message slip.

  “This guy just called in,” Bill said. “He lives in an apartment along the alley behind Daniels’ place. You left your card for him.”

  Mac searched in the back of his mind for a moment, “Oh, yeah, out of town or something.”

  “Right. Anyway, he called.”

  “Say anything?”

  “Nope. He just said you should call him.”

  Mac dialed the number.

  The senator sat on the bed and looked at the floor. Two days before, he had been lunching in the Senate dining room. Now, he was sitting on a bed in a gray cinder-block jail cell, with no window to the outside world, accused of murdering the woman he loved. How had it come to this?

  Somebody had set him up. They would have to figure out whom. He realized his political career was probably over. Even if he was acquitted, the taint would never go away. If Lyman could actually prove he was innocent, well that might be a different story. However, at the moment, he feared that he might not be able to do that. But if he could, it might help save his career for some future point in time. Of course, if he ever did run again, this whole thing would be brought up. And, even proven innocent, it would be known that the woman who died was his mistress; at least that’s how the public would perceive it. He was cheating on his wife, caught red handed. While not fatal if already in political office, it would make it a hell of a lot harder to get back in.

  Lyman had set him straight the night before. For now, he had to forget about his career. They needed to focus on keeping him out of jail. He was looking at a life sentence. This was what had to be avoided. This would be Lyman’s focus. Hisle had already hired a private investigator to look into other possible killers.

  Mason leaned back on the bed, his head against the cold cinder block, closed his eyes and thought about his last night with Claire. He’d never been with a woman like her-beautiful, energetic, passionate. She said she was probably coming to Washington. He had been so happy.

  Telling his wife about all of this had been awful. He suspected Lyman heard her screaming from the other end of the house. Not only did she find out that her husband had been cheating on her-no, that wasn’t bad enough-but her husband, having embarrassed her in that fashion, was now implicated in the murder of the woman. Not only that but Mason had waited too long; she had heard it first from a reporter and not him.

  He admitted to the affair; no sense hiding it now. He had intended to ask for a divorce. The timing just hadn’t been right to do it. “Don’t you worry, the divorce will be coming,” was her response. There would be no supportive wife through this.

  He just had to get through this somehow. He had plenty of money put away. Between what he inherited from his parents as an only child, and his private sector and senate earnings, he was in good shape. Gwen earned more than he had for years, so the divorce would not be financially crippling. Upon reflection, if he could beat this, he could go somewhere far away and live. It would not be the life he envisioned for himself two days before, but things could be worse-he could be living in a cell like this for the rest of his life. An island somewhere, with the ocean, the sun and a cocktail, while not the senate dining room, it beat the alternative.

  Get through the arraignment, arrange for bail and get out of the Twin Cities. He decided to go up to his cabin afterwards. It was only an hour or so away, so if he had to drive in to see Lyman, he could. Better yet, he could have Lyman come out there. He could ice fish, snowshoe, cross-country ski and snowmobile. There were other cabins around, but he had ten acres to himself. The isolation would be good. He felt better just thinking about it.

  He took his suit coat off, loosened his tie and lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes and tried to nap. About the time he felt himself dosing off, the steel door to the cell opened, and the older detective, Lich, appeared with another detective he hadn’t seen before.

  “Time to go, Senator,” Lich said.

  “Where’s your partner?” the senator asked.

  “He’s working on something.”

  It took Mac a minute to realize that Paul Blomberg was worth a look. Blomberg lived in an apartment building that backed up to the alley that split Daniels’ block in half. He had left for Las Vegas on the morning they found Daniels’ body and hadn’t known anything was going on. He returned late the night before and found Mac’s card. He wasn’t sure what he saw exactly, but it might be easier to show him.

  Blomberg was the typical late-twenties single professional living on Grand Avenue. His apartment was like many found in the area, a one-bedroom job, wood floors, built-in wooden buffets and tiny kitchens. Blomberg had just gotten back-his suitcase was sitting in the middle of the apartment, three days of newspapers and mail stacked on top. Blomberg may have been a professional, but he looked worn out, his hair disheveled, a few days of growth on his beard and dark circles around his eyes. He was drinking coffee out of an oversized mug.

  After shaking his hand, Mac asked, “You always look like this?”

  “Funny guy,” replied Blomberg, “Vegas for three days’ll do this to you.”

  “I imagine it might. How’d you come out?”

  “About even. No good at the craps table, but the sports book wasn’t bad.”

  “Yeah? What treated you good there?”

  “The Wild, man.”

  Mac smiled, “Put a little money on the road win at Colorado did you?”

  Blomberg returned the smile, “Man knows his puck.”

  “I know a thing or two about the game,” Mac replied. “So, tell me about what you couldn’t explain on the phone.”

  Blomberg waved him back to the kitchen. It was small, a little fridge and stove and barely enough counter space for a sink and microwave. There was a side window overlooking a parking lot. A small dinner table in front of the window had a toaster and a wood spire that held four mismatched coffee cups. Mac looked out the window. On the other side of the parking lot was Kozlak Foodmart, where Mac often grocery shopped.

  “So?”

  “Well, she was killed when?”

  “Monday night or Tuesday morning.”

  “Hmm. I wonder,” Blomberg said.

  “What did you see?”

  “It was 2:45 to 3:00 a.m., and I was up. Just couldn’t sleep. Wish I could have that night, too, because there wasn’t much to be had in Vegas,” Blomberg said, and he paused, his mind obviously back on the Vegas trip again.

  “Yeah, so?” Mac replied.

  “Anyway,” Blomberg said, sipping his coffee, “I decided I’d make a piece of toast and have a glass of milk, figuring maybe that would help me sleep.”

  “That’s nice,” a little impatient.

  Blomberg picked up the pace, “Anyway, as I’m waiting for the toaster to pop, I see this van pull up in the parking lot, lights out. Kind of odd at that time of night, I thought.”

  “So the lights are out. What happened then?” Mac asked, peering out the window.

  “Anyway, it pulls up, and it looks like the passenger-side sliding door opens.”

  “What do you mean looks like?”

  “If you look out the window, you’ll see. The van turned awa
y from me. It pulled up parallel to the guardrail there. As it was turning to go to the guardrail, the door looked like it started to open.”

  Mac peered down, then looked back at Blomberg. “Then what?”

  “Some guy came from across the alley, jumped in, and they pulled away.”

  “Some guy?”

  “Yeah, he just ran from over there on the right, across the alley and jumped in the van, and they pulled away.”

  “Did you get a look at the guy?”

  Blomberg shook his head. “It was really dark, and he was dressed in dark clothes.”

  “See a face, anything like that?”

  “No. Not at all. Like I said, it was dark.”

  “Tall, short, heavy, slight?"

  “Sorry man. I couldn’t make any of that out.”

  Mac took a look out the window. The lot had parking spaces on the east and west side, as well as a row down the middle. There was a short guardrail that separated the parking lot from the alley. The guardrail prevented someone from pulling into the lot from the alley. “Let’s go down and take a look.”

  They got down to the parking lot, and Mac walked to the guardrail at the back. He looked up to the apartment and Blomberg’s window.

  “So the van pulled up here?” Mac pointed to the area in front of the guardrail.

  “A little further away.”

  Mac walked another ten feet, “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now where did the guy you saw come from?”

  “I didn’t see where he came from really. I saw him come from the alley and jump in the van. The van pulled away pretty fast, and I don’t think the door was even closed when they drove away.”

  “Show me where he was in the alley when you saw him.”

  Blomberg climbed over the guardrail and stood in the middle of the alley. “I didn’t see where he came from. I was watching the van, and I noticed him out of the corner of my eye.”

  Mac walked over to where Blomberg was standing. He looked back east down to the other end of the alley and the left turn into the back of Daniels’ place. Mac walked down the alley towards Daniels’ place. The alley was narrow, but there were all kinds of garages along the left side and a few interspersed between the various businesses and apartments on the right. There were several tall trees and a couple of large weeping willows. Mac thought about when he was a kid playing kick the can. He could have hidden forever in this alley.