Roger Stelljes - The St. Paul Conspiracy

Riley gave everyone the run down. When he’d finished Flanagan looked relieved, Anderson looked excited, and Miller was just plain incredulous. Sally knew all about it, pillow talk of the strangest kind.

“How long have you been on this guy?” Miller asked.

“A week now,” replied Riley.

“How have you kept it so quiet? I haven’t heard even a whisper of this?”

“Because if anyone did, they wouldn’t have a badge,” replied the chief. “And, Sylvia, you can’t talk about it either.”

“I know. I know,” she replied, the relief showing. “I’m just glad to know you’re getting somewhere. That this thing might come to an end. I assume you think he’ll hit soon?”

Mac jumped in. “Next couple of days. Everyone agrees who’s seen him inside the bar, watching the woman. The hunger’s building.”

“Have we seen the van yet?” asked the chief.

“No.”

“Doesn’t that concern you?” Anderson asked.

“Not really,” replied Riles. “We think he uses it only when he takes the women. We think it’s stored in one of the outbuildings at his place.”

“You going to talk to the bar back?” Sally asked.

“Mac and I are going today,” replied Riley.

Mac and Riley got to Dick’s as Linda was pulling up in her Trailblazer. When Mac got out of the unmarked car, she looked at him quizzically and then smiled.

“A little early isn’t it?” a shy smile creased her face.

“It would be, Linda, but that’s not why I’m here.” Mac pulled out his badge, introduced Riley and explained the investigation and Knapp. She led them into the bar and to the upstairs office. Whereas the lower bar was a throwback to a bygone era of a hole-in-the-wall bar, upstairs was a well-furnished office with a distinct woman’s touch. There was a large tasteful offwhite couch and two sitting chairs, which surrounded a coffee table sitting on a Persian area rug that covered a good portion of the wood floor. Two antique oak desks, each with a new laptop computer on them, allowed the women to do business. A thirty-two-inch TV sat in a corner, along with a CD player. The office served as a pleasant alternative to the bar below.

“So, what does your investigation have to do with me?” Linda asked, as she fell into one of the chairs. Mac and Riles took seats on the couch.

Riles, cutting to the chase. “You’re his next target.”

Linda quickly put her hand to her mouth, a look of horror overtaking her face, her voice stammering, “You’re su… su… sure… he’s after me?”

“After last night, we’re real sure,” replied Mac. “He’s been in your place the last several nights. We’ve had a cop in there every night as well as all over the place outside. He leaves the bar and watches from the parking lot until you leave to go home.”

“But why me? Why me? I mean, what did I do?” She asked loudly, her voice anxious, full of alarm.

“He goes for shy, reserved women; you’re that. He goes for workingclass women. I know you own the bar with your sister, but you have a working-class look and manner about you. He goes after women who are smaller physically, which you are,” Mac replied. “You fit the profile to a T.”

“So when do you think he’ll come after me?”

“Any night now.”

“Tonight?”

“Possibly.”

“Why don’t you just arrest him now?”

“We can’t,” Mac answered. “Without going into the legal niceties, we don’t have enough. We’re very lucky to have stumbled onto him so to speak.”

“But so are you,” Riles added. “So, we need your help.”

She didn’t look relieved. “What do you need?”

Riles didn’t sugar coat it, “Him to make a move on you.”

More stammering, “You… you… you mean, letting him come after me? What? You want to catch him in the act?”

Riles and Mac nodded.

She excused herself and went downstairs and returned a minute later with a glass and bottle of Beam, no ice. She sat down, poured herself a shot and knocked it back. She poured herself another one and offered the bottle to both of them. They declined. The second shot went down easily, hardly a grimace on her face. “I assume you have something in mind?”

The detectives smiled, nodded reassuringly and laid out their plan.

Viper was wearing yet another disguise, long black hair, mustache, with a duck-hunting cap and coat to finish it off. He was sitting alone in a booth near the back of the bar, facing the back hallway. Bouchard was disguised as well, all in black. Long black hair down past his shoulder, a black leather biker jacket, black jeans, black leather biker boots, a chained wallet, along with a beard and dark-tinted glasses. He was sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. The long wigs covered their earpieces. They had small, extremely sensitive microphones hidden in their coat collars. They were waiting for Knapp.

He strolled in at 8:30 p.m. and sat on a stool in the middle of the long bar, his usual spot. The good-looking bartender sauntered over and took his order. She would draw the desires of any man tonight. Skin-tight blue jeans and a tight, bright-white top with long sleeves that left her midriff exposed. She apparently had never heard of a bra. Not that Viper was complaining. He caught a quick glimpse of the bar back, in her blue jeans, white sweatshirt and blue turtleneck. How were these two women sisters?

Knapp was watching the bar back and a Gopher basketball game with equal intensity. At 9:30 p.m., almost finished with his second beer, he hopped off the bar stool and headed down the hall. When Knapp went into the men’s room, Bouchard waited ten seconds and then casually got off his stool and followed down the hall.

Bouchard pushed in the door to the men’s room, turned left and as he reached the sink, he could see Knapp in the mirror, at the far urinal on the opposite wall. He walked over to the open one. Knapp glanced over and gave him a slight nod, which Bouchard returned, uttering, “I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

“I hear ya.”

Bouchard unzipped his pants and faked arranging to piss with his left hand. With his gloved right hand he reached in his coat pocket for the switchblade.

Mac figured tonight was not the night. No van. He and Lich were sitting in a van, a block away looking at the back of the bar. Tonight Rockford was inside. He called Mac from the bathroom.

“What’s up?”

“My dick. You outta see what she has on tonight.”

Mac had to smile. Linda had told her about Knapp. Sheila probably decided to pull his chain a little. “Is she drawing any attention from our boy, or is he keeping it on Linda?”

“Pretty much Linda, although even he took notice of this chick tonight. There isn’t a guy in the joint who isn’t undressing her with his eyes, not that they’d have to work hard to do that.”

“Who’s that?” Lich asked.

“Rock. He’s calling from the can. He can’t piss because Bradley gave him a woody.”

“Speakin’ of pissin’, I gotta go bad.”

Rockford heard the discussion, “Who’s that? Lich?”

“Yeah, your call has given him the urge to piss.”

“He can switch up for me?”

Mac thought a second and turned to Lich. “You want to cover the bar?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.”

“Okay, Rock. Lich’s heading in.”

Lich jumped out of the van and briskly walked the couple hundred yards to the back door of the bar. He opened the door and hustled down the back hall, suddenly realizing he’d passed the men’s room door. He stopped and walked back a few feet and pushed the men’s room door in.

Viper took a sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving the back hallway. Bouchard should be doing Knapp about now, he thought. Suddenly the back door opened. It was that fat fuck Lich. Viper tensed and then relaxed as Lich walked past the men’s room door. Then Lich turned back and went into the can. Shit. “Abort! Abort! Abort!” Viper urgently whispered into his mic.