Roger Stelljes - Deadly Stillwater

Smith approached the Clearwater exit, which was forty-five miles from the Twin Cities and eleven miles southeast of St. Cloud. He took the exit ramp up, turned right, and drove a quarter mile before turning right into the parking lot of an abandoned fast-food restaurant. The lot was full of weeds, plastic soda bottles, and discarded fast-food bags. He pulled his car up to the single pay phone on the side of the building, the back of the car facing the road.

He stepped out of the car with a duffel bag. At the phone, he reached into the bag and pulled out a plastic bag with ten dollars’ worth of quarters, a Dictaphone, and a portable voice changer. He attached the acoustic coupler to the handset and adjusted the selector switch for a low voice. He then reached with his gloved hand for the pay phone and put in enough quarters to cover his call back to the Twin Cities. He dialed the number and put the receiver to his head with his left hand and held the Dictaphone in his right hand.

“Here we go,” Burton said, jumping into action as the phone rang. Waving Lyman over, he put an arm around his shoulder, directing him. “Try to keep him on as long as you can,” Burton said to Lyman. “Keep him talking and maybe we get a fix on his position. Keep him going a little longer and maybe we can get somebody there. Get your daughter back! That’s your job, your mission here. Get her back. Keep him talking.”

On the third ring, Lyman picked up, “Lyman Hisle.”

The voice came over the intercom, obviously disguised.

“We have your daughter.”

“How do I know that? How do I know she’s alive?”

There was a muffled sound followed by a click and then the slow, quivering voice that made Lyman cringe.

“Daddy, I am okay. I have not been hurt. Please do as these men say, and I won’t be harmed. I love you…”

The tape cut off. There was another muffled sound, and a few seconds later the voice was back. “Satisfied?”

No, I want to speak with her,” Lyman answered.

“That is all for now,” the voice answered.

“Wait,” Lyman pleaded, “I need to tell you something. Shannon is a diabetic.”

“Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

“Are you hearing me?” Lyman implored, stringing it out as best he could. “She’s a Type I diabetic. She requires daily injections of insulin. If she doesn’t get it, she can get very, sick. She could go into a coma without it; she could die. What good is she to you if she’s dead? You have to help her with that.”

“Then you better do as we say,” the kidnapper replied.

“I won’t do that until I speak with her, so I can hear her voice, so I know that she’s okay.”

“We’ll be in touch.”

“Wait, wait… Her insulin! She needs her insulin!” Lyman yelped, but the line was already dead. He looked helplessly to Burton as he slowly set the receiver back into the cradle. The chief went to his friend, putting an arm around him.

Burton looked to the agent working a laptop.

“Anything?”

The agent held his hand up while watching the screen.

“It’s coming… wait… Bingo! A landline… payphone, in… Clearwater.”

“Where’s that?” Burton asked.

“An hour northwest, up Interstate 94, toward St. Cloud,” the chief said, turning back to the group. “I take that exit going north to my cabin.”

The Explorer sped north, engine roaring, the siren and lights moving traffic out of the left lane as the needle on the speedometer passed one hundred. Mac worked the wheel, with Lich scanning a Minnesota map, checking out Clearwater. Riley and Rock were trailing in an unmarked sedan, alternately on the phone with the Clearwater Police, the State Patrol, Mac and Lich, as well as Burton and Peters.

Five miles from the exit, Mac said, “You know what was weird about the call?”

“What?” Lich asked.

“They didn’t ask for the ransom,” Mac replied. “If this is about ransom, why not ask for it right then?”

“They’ll call back, I’m sure,” Lich replied. “Maybe he figures if he stays on the line too long he’ll get pinched.”

“Maybe. Maybe. But something doesn’t seem right.”

“There’s nothing right about any of this.”

Mac hit the exit ramp, hammered the brakes, and turned hard right. Two state patrol cruisers, a Clearwater squad car, and a Sherburne County Suburban, lights flashing, clustered at a pay phone in the parking lot for an abandoned fast-food-joint. Lich sighed.

“That’s what I feared.”

“What’s that?” Mac asked.

“He’s got options from here.”

“Options?”

Lich pointed at the map, where Interstate 94 and State Highway 10 bracketed their position. Mac understood immediately.

“He could make the call and go north on County Road 24 for four miles, which gets him to State Highway 10, or he could go left and back over to 94,” Lich said.

“Or just stay south on 24, which will take you toward Annandale and Maple Lake twenty miles to the south,” Mac added. “Shit.”

“And if he jumps onto 94 heading back to the cities, with the traffic coming home from up north, he just blends in with everyone else,” Lich said glumly as he climbed out. Riles and Rock were out of their car, and Riles immediately started in.

“Shit, he could go any number of ways…”

“…out of here,” Mac finished.

“We know,” Lich said with disgust. “He has options.”

The area around the phone had been taped off by the locals. Forensics personnel from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension (BCA) would arrive shortly and begin processing the scene. The Clearwater police chief, a pot belly man named Billy Miller, introduced himself and then ran it down.

“No surveillance cameras, this old burger stand’s been closed for over a year now.”

“How about at the convenience store across the road, Chief? Is there any surveillance over there?”

“A trooper went over and asked and looked at their surveillance system. But…”

“You can’t see anything across the road and into this parking lot,” Mac said, shaking his head.

“Correct,” Miller replied.

“Are we checking with all these businesses, gas stations, and restaurants around here?” Riley asked.

“My two guys are on it,” Miller answered, “along with a couple of troopers. They’ve been at it for a half hour, but as far as I know, they haven’t come up with anything.”

They turned and watched as the BCA folks arrived and began walking around with flashlights, fingerprinting the telephone, bagging everything in sight. The effort was being made.

“Maybe the BCA will turn up something,” Rock said unconvincingly.

Miller shook his head, downcast as the rest of them.

“I don’t suspect much will be found, and when he rolls out of here…”

“We know,” Rock replied, waving to County Road 24. “He’s got options.”

11:42 PM

Smith dropped the car at the Park and Fly, which was emptier now, and jumped back into the van. Inside the van, he revved the engine and turned the radio to the talk station. The kidnapping of Shannon Hisle was big news, and the talking heads were focused on it. Of course, so were the nuts, all of whom were frothing at the mouth, ranting for all to hear.

“I agree, it was a brazen act in broad daylight,” the host responded to a caller.

“Well, with something like that, it’s just further evidence that people should be carrying a gun to defend themselves. If this girl had a gun, she could have defended herself.”

“Well, as all you listeners know I’m an ardent supporter of the Second Amendment, conceal and carry,” the host responded, “but I think that response is perhaps an overreaction…”