The St. Paul Conspiracy

by Roger Stelljes

  “Let me guess, during the state hockey tourney.” Snowstorms during the state high school hockey tournament were an annual tradition in Minnesota.

  “Yup.”

  Mac leafed through the file. It was like the other serial-killer files with a picture of the victim, a couple of pages on the evidence tying her to the other murders and a back page, stapled to the folder, with background information, such as address, date of birth, and next of kin.

  Jones had come to St. Paul seven years before. She owned a new condo down along the river. Mac recognized the address. It was one of those posh ones in the River Highlands development right on the river, part of St. Paul’s effort to take financial, meaning tax, advantage of the river front. Figures, CFO at a company like PTA should be able to afford digs like that.

  She was different from the others victims. The other victims were, for the most part, working-class women-waitresses and a convenience store clerk. Even Linda Bradley, though she owned the bar, definitely had a bluecollar, working-girl feel to her. Jones didn’t. She was educated, a professional, lived in an expensive neighborhood and worked for a major corporation.

  “Dan, PTA have any facilities along University Avenue?”

  “Huh?”

  “PTA. Do they have anything along or around University?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “It’s just that she doesn’t seem to have much in common with the other victims. How does Knapp stumble onto the CFO of PTA?”

  “Don’t know, Mac. Some of that occurred to us as well. But, the murder matched all the others down to the letter. Strangled. Sexually assaulted and a Trojan condom was used. No pubic hairs or other physical evidence. Dumped in a vacant lot. Left with a ‘Have a Nice Day’ balloon.”

  “Hardly impossible to copycat.”

  “That’s true, except we kept a tight lid on all of the details. Very little got out. Think about it. If the media knew about the Trojan rubber, no pubic hair stuff, the van, they would have run with it. It never got out. We watched that very closely. The only thing that really got out was the balloon stuff, and that was pretty much unavoidable. Point is we’d have been able to tell if it was a copycat. No dice.”

  Patrick had made a valid point. If it wasn’t Knapp, who was it? And if it was somebody else, they had to have the inside scoop to get it just right. Pretty unlikely. Nevertheless, something seemed odd about it all.

  Mac touched his belly. Three cups of heavy coffee were getting to him. He grabbed Jones’ file and the sports page and headed to the can. The sports page offered little so he put it over the handicap arm lift and reached down for the Jones file. He flipped it open and started reading through the memo again. Jones was strangled with a nylon rope, yellow, might have been a water skiing towrope. She was sexually assaulted post mortem. There was the presence of Trojan condom residue, but no pubic hair or any other piece of evidence left behind. It was a spot-on match.

  He flipped the memo up and looked at the background information stapled to the back of the folder. Jones was born in 1969 and raised in Bristol, Ohio. Her mother lived in Sun City, Arizona, now. Dad was deceased. Jones had apparently never married. She was a graduate of Duke University and had a masters from Northwestern. She obviously had brains to get into both of those schools. She worked in Chicago before coming to Minnesota. She had been at PTA for seven years, worked her way up the ladder, becoming a very young CFO.

  Mac furrowed his brow. Something on the sheet registered with him, like he had seen it somewhere before, but he wasn’t sure what or where. He finished, got up and went to the sink to wash his hands. The door burst open. His cousin Paddy, in uniform, came in.

  “Hey, cuz.”

  “How you doing, Mac? Hungover?”

  “Nah. Early night.”

  “Ahhh. Sally.”

  Mac smiled and nodded as he worked the soap on his hands.

  “Hell of a run for you, cuz,” Paddy said, “Catching Knapp the way you did and Daniels…”

  Daniels. Mac bolted from the bathroom, briskly walked down the hall and hit the stairs to the basement and the evidence room. A uniform cop, Jorgenson, was working the desk. “Hey, Mac, great job on Knapp-”

  “Thanks. Say, I need to pull some evidence. Everything on the Daniels case.”

  “Daniels? What’dya need that for?”

  “Just want to check something out.”

  “Okay, whatever you say.”

  Jorgenson came back with a box with various pieces of evidence. Mac flipped the top off and started digging through evidence bags. And there it was, the 1987 Bristol, Ohio, high school yearbook. He opened it to the page he dogeared weeks ago that had Claire Daniels’, then Claire Miller, graduation picture, first picture on the left, top row. It was on the right page. On the left page halfway down, middle of the row, Jamie Jones. Mac did a rough estimate of the graduating class. There were probably forty or fifty students, a small class.

  Mac checked the evidence out and went back up to his desk and started up his computer and did a Google search for Bristol, Ohio. Bristol, south of Youngstown, had a population of just over 1,200.

  Mac sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. What were the odds that two women who graduated high school together from a tiny southern Ohio town would be murdered the exact same night in St. Paul, Minnesota?

  He got on the phone and called Daniels’ mother, who he had spoke to once during that investigation. She wasn’t particularly helpful then and was no more so now. It wasn’t that she was difficult; she just didn’t know much about what her daughter had been doing with her social life. Apparently that was the case for her daughter’s high school life as well; she didn’t recall a Jamie Jones from Bristol.

  Mac had never spoken to Jones’ mother, but there was a number for her in the file. Mac introduced himself to Ms. Jones, who spent two minutes thanking him for catching Knapp.

  “Ms. Jones, I have one question for you. Do you remember a classmate of your daughter’s named Claire Daniels?”

  “Claire Daniels… hmm… no, I don’t recall a Claire Daniels.”

  Mac kicked himself, “Wait, it was Miller then, Claire Miller. Do you recall a Claire Miller?”

  “Oh, I remember Claire. She was pretty popular when Jamie was in high school.”

  “Were they friends?”

  “They knew each other. It’s a small town, so everyone was pretty friendly.”

  “Did your daughter ever mention running into Claire up in the Twin Cities?”

  “Ohh, yes. Said she saw her on TV. I guess Claire was a reporter. Jamie said she gave her a call, and they got together for coffee or something.”

  “Do you know when it was that they got together?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m sorry. I think it was recently, at least recently before Jamie was killed. But I can’t be sure exactly when.”

  Mac managed to get off the phone before Ms. Jones was able to ask too many questions. He needed to think. Had he found something or was his mind playing games with him? He got up and walked over to the pop machine for a Diet Dr. Pepper, popped the top and took a long drink, looking out the window over Interstate 94. He turned to head back to his desk, when he saw Sally walking down the hall. She saw him and walked over, “Hey.” She saw the look on his face. “You don’t look so good.”

  Mac lightly grabbed her arm and walked her into a vacant interview room and closed the door.

  “What’s up?”

  “I got a bad feeling about something.”

  “What?”

  “Remember I mentioned last night that on Knapp’s wall, one of the victim’s was missing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kind of thought it was odd.”

  “Yeah, so. He was nuts.”

  “Maybe so. But have you ever heard of Bristol, Ohio?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Not really. It’s a small town in southern Ohio.”

  “So.”

  “It’s where Jamie Jone
s graduated from high school in 1987.”

  “Mac, I don’t see where your going with-”

  “-It just so happens it’s also the high school that one Claire Miller, who became Claire Daniels, also graduated from in 1987.”

  Sally’s jaw dropped a little. “Odd coincidence, I guess.”

  “It get’s even odder. They were killed the same night.”

  Sally’s jaw dropped completely. “What are the odds?”

  “Very long, I think.”

  “It’s probably still just a coincidence,” Sally said with little conviction.

  “Maybe,” he replied skeptically. “But I spoke with Jones’ mom, and she confirms that the two of them had recently gotten together for coffee.”

  Sally slipped into lawyer mode. “They’re from the same hometown. So what?”

  “Murdered on the same night? That in and of itself makes you wonder. But there’re other things. I’ve looked over Knapp’s other victims. Jones doesn’t fit. She’s professional. The others are working class. Jones has nothing to do with the University Avenue area. She lives down by the river and works downtown. How does Knapp run into her? She does no business in the University area, and Knapp never was downtown once in the entire time we followed him.”

  Sally sat down, looking away at the white, concrete wall of the interview room. Quietly she said, “If you’re right, this means the Senator-”

  “-Maybe didn’t do Daniels,” Mac said, equally quiet. “And Knapp didn’t do Jones.”

  “So who did?”

  “Good question.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “They can’t seem to keep a CFO alive.”

  Viper had been working around the clock, living in a minivan for what seemed like weeks. He was starting to feel all of his forty-seven years of age. Sore, achy, lethargic and just plain worn out. Kraft’s phone call didn’t exactly help. They weren’t done yet. McRyan and Kennedy’s places would need to remain infested a while longer.

  He slept in late, not having set an alarm. Apparently nothing came of pillow talk between McRyan and Kennedy. If anything important had happened or been said, someone would have called.

  Viper took a long shower, letting the hot water loosen up his muscles. He slowly massaged the Head and Shoulders through his short hair. He wondered if the police, in particular McRyan, would connect the dots. McRyan, or possibly that fat fuck Lich, could put it together, tying Jones to Daniels.

  A full breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and juice as well as a chance to read the paper, gave him a feeling of normalcy. But he couldn’t get McRyan, Knapp, Jones, Daniels, and Cross out of his mind. He took a look at his watch, 9:45 a.m. He was to meet with the boss at 11:00. But first, some important business, in case the dots started getting connected.

  He went to his office and placed a call to a contact in Switzerland. His encrypted phone system prevented tracing. Moving a little over $100,000, he would have that much more money if he had to run. This was in addition to the five million he had in other accounts. This would be a necessary task for the next few days. If he had to run, he wouldn’t be able to take much with. His wallet and the account numbers would mean he wouldn’t want for much once he was in hiding.

  He looked at his watch again. Time to go. On the short drive into the office, McRyan, Knapp, Jones, Daniels, and Cross ran around in his head. Dumb luck all of this had happened really. Cross had been perfect. They pulled the plug on it in time. They made a ton of money on it. In a few years, they would all be retired, living the good life. Then Jones had to go and somehow find out about Cross, and it all started.

  Viper parked in the basement and took the elevator up to the top. He waved to the boss’s receptionist and walked on in. He declined coffee and sat down in front of the desk.

  “So we’re in at McRyan’s and Kennedy’s place?” the boss asked.

  “Yes.” Viper replied.

  “What about following them?”

  “We’re doing that as well.”

  “Let me know what comes of that.”

  “Always.”

  Mind mapping was something Mac had learned from his dad, who used it when a case got too complicated and he needed to see all the parts laid out to see how they might fit together. The elder McRyan would sit at the kitchen table or at his old roll-top desk with nothing but a pen and notepad. He would put whatever was perplexing him down in the middle of the page and jot all his pieces of information down around this question. More often then not, it worked- one of those little things that made Simon McRyan who he was.

  Mac figured if it was good enough for the old man, why not him. He picked the technique up and used it. It had been great for him in school, especially on essay exams. He would lay the issue out in the middle of a piece of paper and jot down, around the page, the points he wanted to make in answering the question. He’d quickly get it all on the paper, number the points in the order he wanted to make them, and then write. Given his grades, it was more than effective as a tool. He hadn’t used it much since school, but if ever there was a time, it was now.

  So, in the middle of his lined notepad, he wrote, “If not Knapp, who and why?” He wrote Daniels down to the left of the question. He wrote Jones on top and Mason Johnson to the right. He spent the afternoon working it, jotting down notes around each one of the names.

  Next to Daniels’s name he jotted down everything he could recall about her that seemed relevant. Grew up with Jones in Bristol Ohio. Had recent contact with her. Investigative reporter.

  Next to Jones’s name he wrote CFO at PTA. Grew up with Daniels in Bristol. Recent contact with Daniels. Didn’t fit profile of other victims.

  Under Senator Mason Johnson, he wrote: How’d he fit in? Did he kill Daniels? If not, who did? Did he commit suicide?

  Down in the lower right-hand corner, he wrote in quotes, “If someone had the resources to kill Daniels and Jones, in the same night no less, did they have the juice to kill the senator?” He made a note to call the Wright County Sheriff.

  What about Knapp? Was his assassination part of this?

  Mac got up and paced the homicide division, looking down at the notepad. Occasionally he would stop and jot down little notes as he took his tour. Stopping at the vending machines, he bought a Diet Coke and some Doritos, and walked back to his desk and plopped himself down in his chair. The Doritos were quickly devoured. He slapped his hands together, cleaning them off and took another look at the Jones file. Became CFO at a young age. What did Patrick say happened? The old CFO had died? What was his name, Stephens or something?

  Mac pulled his chair up to his computer and did an Internet search of the Pioneer Press archives. It took a few minutes, but he found it.

  JAMES STEPHENS, PROMINENT CFO, DIES IN SHEPARD ROAD ACCIDENT

  James Stephens, 54, died last night in a one-car accident along St. Paul’s Shepard Road. Mr. Stephens was returning home from Peterson Technical Applications, where he was the CFO for the past ten years. The accident appeared to be caused by the slick roads resulting from yesterday’s snowstorm. St. Paul Patrol Officer Fred Barrett stated that the car apparently hit a patch of ice while traveling west on Shepard, just prior to the stop sign at the end of Shepard and the beginning of Mississippi Boulevard. His vehicle, unable to stop, went through the stoplight, over the embankment, rolling over and coming to a rest upside down thirty-feet below on the west bound lane of West 7th Street. Mr. Stephens was rushed to United Hospital and was pronounced dead on arrival. Stephens is survived by his second wife, Yolanda, and two sons, James, Jr., of Washington, D.C., and Jeff of Seattle, Washington.

  Mac tracked down Barrett. “I tell you, Mac, it was pretty horrific. He went over that embankment, rolled a few times. The car was crushed. He didn’t have a chance, even with the airbag deploying and his seatbelt.”

  “Anything unusual about the accident?”

  “Not that I recall. Roads were icy as hell that night, and you know how Shepard gets. He got going too fast in th
e snow, hit that patch of ice, and that was all she wrote.”

  It was a dead end. Shepard Road could get nasty, and Mac remembered at least a couple of times when he almost lost it driving along there. He wrote Stephens’ name down on the bottom of the page anyway. CFO for ten years at PTA. Jones took over for him. That’s how someone so young got the gig.

  He kept going around the page, jotting down little notes and theories. Daniels, dating the senator. Maybe he said something to Daniels? But why kill Jones then? Maybe Daniels mentioned something the senator said to Jones. Jones told somebody who didn’t like it? Mac shook his head. They’d never get to it if it followed that path.

  He looked around the notepad, twirling his pen like it was a baton. How about reversing it? Something Jones said or knew? What would she know? Why would she tell Daniels? Mac stared at the ceiling, running things through his head. Daniels, Jones, the senator. What’s the connection? To kill them, you wouldn’t do it on a whim, by the seat of your pants. No, it would take planning. To kill all of them you had to have resources, money, people, and intelligence.

  He took another look at his page, going around the question clockwise. Daniels, Jones, Johnson, Stephens… Mac drew a dotted line from the bottom of the page from Stephens to Jones. They worked together at PTA. Daniels was a reporter, specializing in politics and business. Mac thought about the DVDs of her work, white-collar crime and political news. Resources means money and people. Who has resources? Who has money? Who… has… people…? “Shit.” Mac said under his breath as it crystallized before his eyes.

  He pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to a window that looked a few blocks south to the center of downtown St. Paul. Mac stared at the tall building for five minutes. He admired the combination of glass and stone. He looked at the letters on top of the building, illuminated in the late afternoon dim. It was impressive, holding a prominent position in St. Paul’s skyline. He went back to his desk and wrote the letters down in the upper right hand corner of the notepad, between Daniels and Jones.