Roger Stelljes - The St. Paul Conspiracy

Mac, at full speed now, half a block behind Knapp, turned left to the sidewalk on the north side of Sherburne, sprinting hard, parallel to the alley, looking to his right through the houses, not able to see Knapp but getting a general fix from Falcon’s spotlight. He wanted to cut to his right, get to the alley, but there were too many fences, bushes. He kept running, looking right. Another house. Then a break, a clean shot through to the alley. Mac veered right. As he crossed the back of the house he saw Knapp running peripherally to his right, with Falcon’s light painting him. Knapp, sensing things closing, abruptly veered right between two houses on the other side of the alley, losing some speed but also losing the spotlight from Falcon.

Mac, flying, stayed dead straight, on a beeline to the other side of the house, rapidly closing the gap. He lost Knapp briefly behind the house but picked him up around the front, to his right. Mac had the angle on Knapp, as if he was running along the sideline of a football field. Knapp looked back over his right shoulder for pursuers. He didn’t see Mac coming from his left.

Mac didn’t break stride down the incline to the sidewalk. Knapp, coming from his right, ran behind a parked car. Mac burst in front of the car and at full speed, drilled the serial killer, ran through him, with his right shoulder, a textbook tackle. The tackle took Knapp off his feet and drove him into the pavement, with Mac rolling over him and landing with his back against a parked car, his head slamming into a tire. Dazed, his head pounding, Mac could see Knapp five feet away, starting to push himself up. Mac told his body to move, but he was reacting slowly, not moving fast enough, foggy from crashing into the car.

Knapp was up on a knee, pushing up with his hands, ready to take a step.

Mac rolled to his right, setting his hand on the pavement, trying to push himself up, wanting to give chase.

Knapp, up now, took a step, but only one. A blur from the left wiped him out. Rockford, all two hundred fifty pounds of him, finished the job for Mac, steamrolling Knapp. Subdued by the force of the tackle, Knapp was easily cuffed by Rock, who just might’ve taken an extra shot or two in the process. Falcon, having caught up, provided a guide for all of the other vehicles and cops, who circled the area now like moths to a flame.

Mac sat back against the tire, breathing hard, his head pounding, seeing some stars. Perhaps not stars, but little flickering bright lights, like used to happen when he got checked hard into the boards when he played hockey.

Riles approached. He squatted down in front of Mac. “You all right?”

“Yeah, just got my bell rung, I think,” Mac replied, trying to focus his eyes. “Help me up.”

Riles reached his right arm around Mac’s left side and helped him up. Mac set his feet underneath him, and while he was a little lightheaded, he felt okay. “How’s Linda?”

“She’s fine. Brace did the trick,” Riles responded, smiling, relieved.

Having steadied Mac, Riles walked over to a face-down and handcuffed Knapp. Squatting down again, Riles pushed Knapp onto his right side and looked him in the eye.

“Have a nice day.”

The press conference ended at 10:30 a.m. Mac, Riley, Rockford, and Lich retreated to an empty interview room, found some coffee and relaxed, a few hours of sleep having temporarily refreshed them all. Riles was particularly chipper, the long investigation over, his efforts vindicated.

“What time you taking him to court?” Lich asked Riley.

“Noon. Rock and I get to walk him in the front door.”

“Better you than me,” Mac replied.

“You should be there as well. Lich too. You guys broke this thing open.”

“Thanks just the same. I’d as soon avoid the media. I had enough of it on the Daniels case,” Mac replied.

“Agreed. Besides, I’m not the most photogenic guy,” Lich replied, in a huge understatement.

Just then Dan Patrick stuck his head in the room. “Thought I might find you guys here. We’re heading out to Knapp’s place in Hudson. Guess there’s some interesting stuff out there. Anyone care to join?”

“I’d love to,” Riles replied, “but I have orders to hang around for the walk over to the courthouse.”

“Me too,” Rock added.

“I’ll go,” Mac said. “Dick?”

“Yeah, why not.”

“See you boys later?” Mac said to Rock and Riles.

“Yeah, party tonight over at the Pub,” Riley replied, “And you all will be there.” It wasn’t a question. “Anyone who doesn’t show will be summarily shot. We deserve a little celebration.”

Bouchard slid the card into the reader, saw the light turn green and pushed his way into the tenth-floor hotel room. Hennessey, Hagen, and Skogman were with him and carried in their equipment.

Skogman opened the shades, and Bouchard looked out the window.

Hennessey came up behind and looked out as well. “This should work.”

“Agreed,” Bouchard replied. “Let’s get set up.”

Mac had driven by Knapp’s driveway many times over the last ten days. It felt odd to finally turn in and go up to the house. The Hudson cops were already there, with the crime scene tape up and lights flashing everywhere. A few curious onlookers were hanging out down on the county road, gawking.

Knapp’s farmhouse was maintained to military cleanliness on the main level and upstairs. The furniture was plain, vintage seventies in color and style, but well kept. The personal effects were sparse, except for a few family photos. There was nothing unusual, at least until they went down to the basement.

As they went down the stairs to the basement, it looked and smelled just like a farmhouse cellar. Dark, dusty, filled with crates, boxes, assorted junk with a musty smell, like old potatoes. However, under the steps was an old oak plank door that opened into the back foundation wall. Behind the door was a room underneath the four-season porch. Mac estimated it at fifteen by fifteen. Knapp had kept the room sealed with a combination lock, which now sat on the floor in two pieces, victimized by a bolt cutter.

The room was partially furnished with a television, desk, and computer. Above the desk was a shelf, which contained half a used box of Trojan condoms, the kind used in each killing. There was also a box with the balloons. Knapp had one of each in the van the night before. However, that wasn’t what really caught his attention.

On the left wall was a bulletin board, a monument to Knapp’s work. The bulletin board was filled with news clippings, pictures, maps, and diagrams. It wasn’t too different from the bulletin board they had in the detail conference room. In a disjointed way, it told the story of what Knapp had been doing for the last couple of months. It was altogether creepy and fascinating at the same time.

Mac started from the left, was a third of the way down, passively looking at the clippings, when Lich came up to him. “Weird, huh?”

“Yeah. Creepy. It’s as if in his own warped mind, he was creating his masterpiece or something.”

“FBI profile said the guy might keep some sort of journal,” Patrick added. “This qualifies.”

“I’d say so,” Lich replied.

They stood in silence for a few moments, gazing at the wall.

“There’s a piece missing here,” Patrick said.

“Missing?” Mac asked.

“Yeah, nothing about Jamie Jones.”

Mac checked his memory, that was one of the victim’s names wasn’t it? “Jones… yeah… which… one was she?”

Patrick gave Mac a stern look.

“Hey, Dan, the day Dick and I got on the case, we had the seventh one. I didn’t even have a chance to go through all the files. Never really did because we got on Knapp so quick.”