Deadly Stillwater (18 page)

“Mac?” He turned to see his second cousin Tip, a patrol cop, pointing to the football bleachers. “Up in the stands.”

Mac, Lich, and the rest hustled through the tunnel in the middle of the grandstand and then up the bleachers to the spot just in front of the press box, where a tech was taking photos, dusting for prints, and evaluating the package. Wrapped in clear plastic, it hung underneath a wood bleacher like a bat in a cave. Mac walked down the row just below where everyone was hovering. He crouched down, took off his sunglasses, and looked underneath. “What do you see?” Burton asked.

“Laptop,” Mac answered, noting the red and blue inputs on the back. The laptop was held to the seat by duct tape, which looked to be covering Velcro straps.

“Any prints?” Burton asked the crime tech.

“Nada. It’s clean,” was the curt reply from the tech.

“Not even on the tape or the plastic?” Lich asked. The tech just shook his head. The kidnappers weren’t leaving them anything to work with.

“Are we canvassing?” Riles asked, wiping sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand.

“I’ve got bodies coming, yours and ours,” Burton replied. “We’ll blanket the neighborhood, see what turns up.”

Mac snorted and shook his head.

“Got to do it I know, but it’s a big fuckin’waste of time,” he said.

“Never know, someone could have seen something,” Burton said.

“You really think so? These guys haven’t left us anything up to this point,” Mac replied in disgust.

Burton exhaled and shook his head.

“No, but like you said, gotta do it.”

“What about the laptop?” Lich asked. “Want to look here or downtown?”

“Downtown,” Burton replied. “I want my people taking a look at it. I’m guessing we have video.”

15

“
How are they going to breathe?”

Channel 12 broke into its early afternoon soap opera for a special report. The tanned, toothy, and well-coiffed anchor Paul Phillips walked the lead in.

“We’re cutting into our regular programming to bring you breaking news about the kidnappings of Carrie Flanagan, daughter of St. Paul Police Chief Charlie Flanagan, and Shannon Hisle, daughter of prominent St. Paul attorney Lyman Hisle. Right now we’re going to Channel 12’s Heather Foxx in St. Paul, who’s been tracking this story for us. Heather.”

“Paul, we’re at the St. Paul Police Department headquarters, where the FBI and police have just arrived with a laptop computer found under the stands in Griffin Stadium at St. Paul Central High School,” Heather said perfectly to the camera. She loved doing this on the fly, the rush of excitement, pulling it off without a hitch. Reports like this got you a network or cable gig, she thought, when you were quick on your feet, looking good, totally under control, regardless of the adrenaline pumping through your veins. “And, in another Channel 12 exclusive, we’ve learned that the police have received a ransom demand for the two girls.”

“Do we know what the ransom demand is, Heather?” Phillips piped in.

“At this point, no, Paul,” Heather answered. “We’ve been unable to learn the amount.”

“Did the FBI and police learn of the ransom demand from the laptop, Heather?”

“No, Paul. The ransom demand was received by phone. At that time the authorities were apparently directed to the laptop at Central High.” “Do we know what is on the laptop?”

“No, we don’t. It is my understanding that the police were bringing it back here to analyze it.”

“Heather,” Phillips asked, tacking in a different direction. “What about the police and FBI takedown in Northfield that you reported earlier? Any further developments?”

“The police have released Drew Wiskowski, although his son Steve is now in custody. However, it appears that neither of them are involved in the kidnappings of Shannon Hisle and Carrie Flanagan,” Foxx answered.

“Well,” the anchor smiled, showing unnaturally white teeth, “it has indeed been a busy day for the FBI and police.”

“Indeed it has, Paul,” Heather replied seriously. “They continue to ask for the public’s help, particularly with regard to the vans and the descriptions we have of the kidnappers.” The pretty reporter provided the now-familiar general description of large men, likely dark hair, operating in delivery or panel vans common throughout town. Foxx finished by providing the phone numbers to contact the police and FBI and then signed off.

“Reporting from the St. Paul Police Department, this is Heather Foxx, Channel 12 News.” She held the pose for a moment and then her cameraman waved her off.

“Nice report,” he said.

“Thanks, but cripes it’s hot,” she replied, wiping a film of perspiration off her forehead.

A Channel Six van pulled up, and reporter Scott Crossman climbed out of the van in a navy blue, button-down collar shirt and blue tie. His dress shirt was sticking to his body, and sweat rings showed around his pits and collar. He wasn’t going on camera any time soon.

“Christ, Heather, who’s your fucking source for this stuff?” Crossman was pissed, but there was admiration in his voice.

* * * * *

The detectives and agents filed into the conference room and set the laptop on the conference table. The chief and Lyman wanted in, but Burton, with the help of Peters and Riley convinced them to wait outside while the group took the first look. The mayor, for reasons Mac couldn’t quite figure out, joined them. An FBI tech with rubber gloves and a lab coat flipped the top open to the laptop. He spent the next few minutes checking the laptop keys for prints. Not surprisingly, there were none. While the techs worked, the rest watched Heather Foxx’s report.

“She has a good source,” Burton said.

“She usually does. She bats her eyes or loosens a button or two on that blouse of hers, and some puppy-eyed cop spills the beans,” was Mac’s wry reply.

“Speakin’ from experience, Detective?” the mayor asked, his tone just a little accusatory.

“If that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Mac replied, not looking up from the laptop. He heard the mayor snort behind him.

“You
will
live dangerously,” Lich warned in a quiet, albeit amused voice as he leaned over Mac’s shoulder.

“So what do we
really
have here?” the FBI tech said as he powered up the computer. The laptop was a Compaq and looked new.

“Can we track where the laptop came from?” Riley asked, looking at Mac.

“I should think so,” Mac replied, and then looked at the FBI tech, a little edge in his voice. “Can you?”

“Sure, we just need to take this serial number,” the agent answered, pointing underneath the computer, “and get with Compaq.” He jotted down the serial number and gave it to another agent. “It’ll take a little time to track it down,” he said to the group at large.

“Pray they bought it with a credit card,” Riley replied.

“I doubt we’ll be that lucky.” Mac replied.

“Might get something,” Riley said pointedly. “We gotta have hope,” he added through clenched teeth, staring a hole through Mac.

Mac read the sign: watch the negativity and stay cool. The chief was in the hallway, and he didn’t need to see his boys with their heads down. Sooner or later, the kidnappers would make a mistake and
then
the boys would capitalize, but only if they kept their minds open to the possibility. Mac exhaled, nodded lightly, and spoke more calmly.

“We might, we might. If we can figure out when the laptop was bought and where,” he added. “Maybe we can get something. They wouldn’t pay with a credit card, or at least one in their real names or names we could trace. But….”

“But what?” Riles asked.

“If they bought it at a Best Buy, Target, Costco, Wal-Mart, someplace like that,” Mac added, “we could figure out which register it was bought at and what time. Maybe we could get surveillance camera footage from the checkout.”

“Think we can catch one of the men on the surveillance video?” Duffy asked.

“Or the woman,” Lich added. “Let’s not forget about her.”

“Depends. They might have had someone purchase it for them. But let’s check and see. Do you guys have access to that facial-recognition software?” Mac asked.

“If need be,” a member of Burton’s crew answered.

“Get on that,” Burton said, “Let’s track that computer down.”

“So what’s on the computer?” Lich asked, pushing to get back on task.

“Let’s take a look,” the FBI tech replied. He powered up the laptop, waiting for the screen to come to life. When it did, there was a video icon on the screen. The tech double clicked on the icon, and a video program opened up.

The video began soundlessly with a view out the windshield of a vehicle, either a truck or a van, driving down a rough dirt road with knee-high grass and weeds between the tire tracks. There was taller grass, bushes, and scraggly trees in the background. The picture vibrated as the vehicle jostled into potholes or rocks.

The time in upper right corner showed 9:09 PM, the date July 2, the night before. It was dusk.

After a minute of elapsed time, the dirt road wound its way toward a straight line of tall trees. The road then turned left to run parallel with the thick tree line. The area was vacant with no activity.

At 9:15 by the video clock, the vehicle abruptly turned right onto an overgrown path, its long grass matted down by what must have been only a couple of previous trips. The vehicle pulled up to a tree with orange tape tied around its massive trunk.

The video went dark, and someone groaned in dismay.

The picture came back to life ten seconds later, the time now reading 9:23.

Lying motionless on the floor of the van was Carrie Flanagan on the left and Shannon Hisle on the right. Shovels and PVC piping surrounded them. Black ties bound the girls’ wrists and ankles. Both were blindfolded and gagged. They did not appear harmed or beaten, simply sweaty and disheveled. Hisle, still dressed in her café golf shirt and khaki shorts, looked pale. Flanagan still wore her jean shorts and a smudged white tank top.

A too-familiar voice finally broke the deathly quiet of the conference room.

“The girls are alive,” it said. The camera zoomed in on Flanagan and then Hisle for long enough to show that the girls’ chests were moving. “They have been drugged. They will probably awaken around the time you are watching this video.”

Mac looked at his watch: 1:22 PM.

“Now let’s go see where they will wake up,” the voice continued, and the camera panned to the right to a black-clad man wearing gloves and a ski mask. He pulled a piece of PVC piping out from the right side of the van. The camera followed him as he turned his back on the camera and walked away, off to the right of the screen.

The video went dark.

It came alive again, the time now 9:47 PM.

“This is where the girls will be when they wake up.” The girls were lying motionless in a sturdy reinforced plywood box, side-by-side, their arms and feet no longer bound.

“What’s that box, maybe two feet high, four across, and six feet long?” Mac asked quietly.

“Looks about right,” Burton answered softly.

The camera zoomed, showing what looked like a Dictaphone and a flashlight lying between the girls.

“You’ll note the absence of food and water,” the voice said, as if reading everyone’s mind.

“Ah shit,” Rock uttered quietly.

“Mother fuckers,” Mac muttered, knowing where this was going.

The camera pulled back to show the box lying in a large hole, four to five feet deep. Portable lights provided just enough illumination to film, but not enough to identify the location. The video showed the arms of two men laying a piece of reinforced plywood over the box, then using electric screwdrivers to set it in place. There was no hole in the top for ventilation.

“How are they going to breathe?” Rock asked.

“The PVC piping,” Mac answered as he pointed to the lower right side of the screen. “If you look, there are holes on the right side of the box.”

The video went dark.

It came back to life, five minutes later, now 10:01 PM.

As Mac had suggested, one of the men was securing the PVC piping to the right side of the wood box. The camera pulled straight back to show that the pipes were four to five feet long, and would probably stick just above ground once the dirt was shoveled back into the hole. The voice came back, briefly.

“The girls have two pipes for air to breathe.”

The video once again went dark.

Ten seconds later, it came back to life, 10:27 PM.

The last of the dirt was being shoveled into the hole. The pipe stood inches above the ground. The camera pulled back to show that the area was a small clearing in the midst of thick woods. Logic dictated it couldn’t be far from the edge of the tree line, but there was no way to tell. The voice came back one last time.

“Mr. Hisle, I bet you’re wondering about your daughter’s diabetes. That type 1 is nasty stuff. Your daughter will just have to hang on. So if you and the chief want the girls back alive, you follow our next set of instructions to the letter.”