Roger Stelljes - The St. Paul Conspiracy

Hansen walked over, “Yes, he did.”

“A whole liter? That’s a lot of courage,” Mac replied.

“True enough,” Hansen replied.

He took another look at the ice bucket, half full of water, “Must not have used much ice.” Mac looked at the bottle a little closer, being careful not to touch it. The paper seal for the cap on the neck of the bottle looked freshly opened, “Seal looks pretty fresh, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“Drank this whole thing, huh?” Mac replied a little skeptically. A liter of tequila was a lot of liquor, forty-percent alcohol by volume. “Polishes this thing off and can still get up on the stool?”

Hansen caught his tone. “Yeah, we’re going to get a blood alcohol as part of the autopsy.”

Mac took a look at the rope, a real hangman’s noose with good tight knots. “He did a nice job on the rope.”

“Must have been a Boy Scout,” Lich quipped.

“Hmpf.” Mac nodded and walked over to the bar stool the senator used. “So, he stands on this, puts the rope around his throat and kicks it out?”

“That’s what we think,” replied Hansen.

Mac couldn’t argue with that, the stool was high enough that the senator could have used it. It was lying in the right place on the floor for him to have kicked it out. He probably tied the rope and hung it first, then got drunk on the tequila. Mac got ready to head out. “Thanks again, Sheriff, for the call. Will you send me a copy of the autopsy report?”

“Be happy to.”

Mac handed Hansen his card, shook his hand and headed out with Lich. They walked back over to Lyman, who was talking with Sally.

“Lyman, was Johnson a big tequila drinker?” asked Mac.

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“Empty liter of tequila on the coffee table. Looks like he got himself pretty liquored up before he did it.”

“He wasn’t a teetotaler, I know that,” replied Lyman.

Mac nodded and looked around. The wind blew and sent a shiver down his spine. He flipped the collar up on his leather coat and put his hands in the pockets. He took a walk around to the front of the cabin. From the front, it was a flat seventy-five yards down to the shore. There were far fewer trees in the front, as compared to the sides and back of the cabin. They had been cleared out to provide a clear view of the lake. He walked to the edge of the trees and looked back. You could see right into the cabin, see the rope hanging down.

“Yeah, McRyan, you can see right in, can’t you?” Viper said under his breath, watching with binoculars from a boathouse across the small lake. McRyan was standing twenty feet from Viper’s perch the night before.

“He can wonder about it all he wants. We’re clean,” Bouchard said. “No prints. The rope’s clean, and we used gloves. Nobody touched the bottle or ice bucket. No forced entry that they could detect. He can guess and speculate all he wants, he ain’t going to find shit. They’ll have no choice but to call it a suicide.”

At least Bouchard sounded sure. Viper would wait and see. McRyan eventually wandered back to Hisle and put his hand on his shoulder. Hisle nodded his head, and it looked like he said, “I’ll be okay.” McRyan didn’t go talk to the sheriff again or snoop around any further. Instead, along with Lich and Kennedy, he headed back to the Explorer, got in and drove away.

“Do you feel better now?” asked Bouchard.

“A little.”

They were all quiet for a while as they headed back east on Highway 55 towards the Cities. Sally finally spoke, a tinge of disappointment in her voice. “I guess that wraps up that.”

“Yeah, Ms. Kennedy, you lost your shot for the big time,” Lich replied.

“There’ll be others, I’m sure,” she replied wistfully.

Mac just looked at the road ahead, wondering.

Two Weeks Later

Mac pulled up to the Grand Brew for his usual. He got out of the Explorer and put his gloved hands in his trench-coat pockets. Before leaving, he put the wool liner in his coat for some extra warmth. He would need it. The cold, windy November days were leading up to the Minnesota winter to come. This time of year, most days were cloudy, damp and windy, the sun rarely making an appearance.

These days, he needed his hot caffeine injection to start his day more than ever. Since he started seeing Sally, there had been many late nights, and that was a good thing. Mac often thought the last couple of weeks, that a person didn’t realize how lonely he was, until he wasn’t lonely anymore. Whether it was going to the Pub after work, to dinner or a movie, it was nice to have someone to spend time with again. He was still getting to know her, but it was good to be, as Lich put it, back in the saddle again.

Mac needed his caffeine shot for another reason. He and Lich had been assigned to Riley’s detail on the University Avenue Strangler. They started that very morning, and he was perversely pumped. The Daniels case was over and done. A new senator had been appointed with a special election set for the following fall. Word was Helen Anderson was already angling to run.

The serial killer was still at large, and the political and media pressure was once again mounting on the department. Mac, having brought the Daniels case home, was the flavor of the month. This was especially the case after, at the chief’s request, he gave an extended interview to the Pioneer Press about the Daniels case. After the article, questions began to surface from the media, wondering if Mac would become involved in the serial killer investigation. Flanagan, seeing a chance to take some heat off, put Mac and Lich on it.

Mac was of two minds about it. He welcomed the chance to work the case. Cases like this were why he wanted to be a detective in the first place. It was the kind of case his dad would have loved.

However, Mac worried about his friend Pat Riley, who was heading the serial killer detail. The case was beating the shit out of him, and now they were putting the new hotshot on the case. Thankfully, Riles had made it easy, seeking Mac and Lich out, welcoming them, saying the case could use a fresh set of eyes. Pat gave them both a file, the “Cliff Notes” version he called it, to get them up to speed. They could spend time with the full case files in the days to come.

The short file told Mac that they were dealing with a cold, calculating killer. There had been six deaths to date. The last two had only been seven days apart, and the concern was that the killer was picking up his pace. Mac remembered thinking that the Daniels case would take the heat off the chief for a while. It lasted all of four days until they found the sixth body on the following Tuesday.

The file revealed that the investigators, despite six murders, had little solid evidence on the killer, just speculation.

The one certainty seemed to be the victims. With the exception of one, they were working-class women. They worked shifts that usually ended between 10:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. They were physically similar women, nondescript in appearance, medium height, thin and not physically strong.

Once he had the women, the serial killer strangled and then sexually assaulted them. He used a Trojan condom. Other than that, he left no traceable evidence behind. He wore gloves. He never left pubic hair, and they suspected that he shaved the area around his genitals, or perhaps was using a prop to complete the sexual assault. After strangling and assaulting the women, the asshole would dump the bodies in vacant lots in close vicinity to University Avenue. When he dropped the bodies, the killer left his signature, a balloon with a smiley face-“Have a Nice Day.” Riles said it was his way of rubbing their faces in it.