Deadly Stillwater (35 page)

“The Mueller boys have an older sister named Monica Reynolds – her married name.”

“Tell me the older sister looks like our missing woman,” Riles said, hopeful.

“Here’s a picture we got from the DMV for her license,” Sally responded. “Tell me what you think.” Her tone said she thought it was a match.

The group gathered around the table to look at the artist sketch of the woman from Cel’s Care next to the blown-up DMV photo. They also had security camera stills from Milwaukee and St. Thomas University for comparison. The hair color was right, as were the lips and nose and the eyes. The hair of the woman at the café didn’t match, but again, the eyes, nose, and lips looked about right. Mac spoke for everyone. “It could be her, there’s certainly a similarity.”

“Where is Monica Reynolds at these days?” Rock asked.

“Again, interesting,” Sally said, as Summer Plantagenate handed her another set of papers, as smoothly as if the two were going through exhibits at a jury trial. “Up until two months ago, she owned a house over on the east side of St. Paul by Lake Phalen. She sold it for $225,000 and left a P.O. Box as a forwarding address. It doesn’t appear she has established another home.”

“At least not one I can find,” Hagen added, looking up from his computer. “I’m still searching.”

“The money from the sale ended up in a checking account at Wells Fargo,” Sally said, “an account that she closed shortly thereafter, we can’t find any evidence she’s opened another one somewhere.”

“So she’s floating out there with a nice chunk of walking-around-money to finance whatever it is these guys might be up to,” Mac said. “This is adding up.”

“It is,” Sally said.

“So we’ve got a solid connection between the chief and Lyman in Brown and the Muellers. We have physical descriptions that are consistent. They’ve got motive. Brown gives them the intellect to pull this off,” Riles summarized.

“And Brown and Monica at least seem to have pulled a disappearing act,” Mac said.

“So what’s next?” Sally asked. “What do you think?”

“We check out this last known address,” Mac answered. “Lich and I will do that.”

“What do you want Rock and I to do?” Riles asked.

“Stay here and work this for now,” Mac replied. “We need to look into family for the Muellers and Brown. Do they have family around and where? If they do, we need to be talking to them. We should have someone run Monica’s photo over to the café, see what people over there think. Also, run these four against the department personnel files. Maybe we find the mole that way. And one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Someone should be around when the ransom call comes in,” Mac said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about that. Brown and the Muellers have been ahead of us every step of the way. There’s no reason to think they aren’t now.”

“Especially if they have someone on the inside,” Sally said.

“Exactly,” Mac answered, pointing at Sally. “But now maybe, just maybe, we’re evening out the odds here. We finally know who we’re up against. Now we just need to find them before this all shakes out.”

Mac and Lich turned to leave when Jupiter and Shawn McRyan came into the room. Jupe was holding up a DVD and color pictures.

“Tell me you found something?” Mac said.

“Maybe,” Jupiter said, briefly explaining the pictures pulled off the video. “If we can figure out where the PVC piping was purchased, maybe it’s another way to get a line on these guys.”

“Do that,” Mac ordered and then turned to Sally. ”Let’s get on the horn to this company, figure out a way to find out who’s selling this pipe in Minnesota.”

“I’ll give it a shot,” Sally replied skeptically. “The Fourth of July keeps getting in the way. It’ll be tough to track somebody down.”

“Sally,” Hagen interjected. “While you’re trying the legal way, why don’t you give me what you have there,” he said pointing at the picture. “I might be able to find another way.”

30

“
This will serve as my last will and testament.”

After talking for a couple of hours, even having a few laughs along the way, conversation between Carrie and Shannon had faded. It was a pattern. Neither of them slept for long or stayed awake and alert for more than a couple of hours. Sleeping, if you could, was the best of the two options. If you were awake, especially if the other was sleeping, you just lay there thinking about where you were. Carrie was also trying to sleep lightly so that she could monitor Shannon’s condition. She was beginning to get worried about her and how long she could last.

Following their last conversation, Carrie slept for a little while, but she was awake now and her mind had started racing again. What else would your mind do when you were buried alive? Flanagan thanked God repeatedly that she wasn’t claustrophobic. What she needed was something to do, something to occupy her mind.

Carrie picked up the Dictaphone, contemplating its use. What if the kidnappers wouldn’t let anyone know where they were buried? She figured since they were buried alive, it was intended that they were to be found. But what if that wasn’t the case? What if they weren’t found in time? Carried sighed, and tears welled in her eyes for the first time in hours. What a way to go.

Her thoughts turned again to her family, to her parents, brothers, sisters, ever her boyfriend. She never had the chance to say good-bye. She took another look at the Dictaphone. There was plenty of space left on the tape – the message from the kidnappers had been short and to the point.

She remembered watching
M*A*S*H
with her dad. He loved that show and could recite from memory the dialogue from entire episodes. She chuckled at how many times her dad would say, for no reason, “Nope, its oak.” Or if Mom cooked a bad meal, he would get that mischievous smile and quote Hawkeye Pierce behind her back, “I don’t know how our cook got off at Nuremburg.” Her father loved the episodes with Trapper and Henry Blake, the early years of the show. But right now she remembered an episode from the later years, when the show got preachy. It was where Hawkeye was sent to an aid station at the front. Between triaging injured soldiers and ducking bombs exploding all around, he sat and wrote his will on a yellow legal pad, bequeathing gifts to everyone in the 4077.

Carrie was in the same situation for real. She could die. She wanted to say something to the people she cared most about, even if they never got to hear it. Twirling the Dictaphone around in her fingers near her face, she contemplated what to say. She closed her eyes. “I still can’t believe this is happening,” she uttered quietly, tears still pooled in her eyes. She hoped this was just an awful dream that she would awaken from, but it wasn’t and she hadn’t.

Flanagan opened her eyes and pushed the record button on the Dictaphone, “This is Carrie Marie Flanagan. I am the daughter of St. Paul Police Chief Charles Flanagan.” She stopped the tape and sniffled, getting her emotions in check before she continued. She didn’t want her family to hear the terror in her voice.

“I was kidnapped on Monday, July 2nd. I’m buried in this box with Shannon Hisle. Shannon is the daughter of Lyman Hisle, A St. Paul lawyer, a friend of my father’s. Shannon was kidnapped the day before on July 1st.” Carrie stopped again and rested the Dictaphone on her chest, breathing harder.

“Today is the Fourth of July and it’s…” she checked her watch, “2:15 PM. We have been in this box for over forty hours now. If we’re not found soon, we will both die.” She heaved a big sigh and swallowed, a dry swallow, with little moisture left in her mouth. She wetted her lips as best she could and pushed up on the record button.

“This will serve as my last will and testament.”

She closed her eyes again and wiped the tears from her cheeks, still having a hard time believing she’d uttered those words. You were supposed to do something like this sitting across a large mahogany table from a lawyer, not buried underground, speaking into a Dictaphone that might never be found. But, as her father often liked to say, “it is what it is” and she was where she was. She contemplated what to say next. Carrie thought about the three older brothers who had looked after her all these years, protecting her, and in some, no, make that in many cases, chasing interested boys away, much to her chagrin.

Now her protectors would be feeling helpless, unable to help and guard her. Carrie didn’t want them to worry about it. She wanted them to remember the good times, what great brothers they were, how much she looked up to them, adored them and loved them. One of her favorite possessions was the three pictures next to her bed, from her high school graduation: a picture of her with each of her brothers. A proud night for the family, the last of the Flanagan kids graduating from high school. She treasured those pictures.

Carrie pushed the record button. “To my brothers, I bequeath….” She stopped. To her right, she sensed Hisle moving, but it was unnatural. Hisle wasn’t adjusting her body, trying to get comfortable. She was starting to shake and reflexively pulling her legs into her chest. Shannon had warned this might happen when her blood sugar started getting really high and she didn’t have enough insulin in her body. Flanagan rolled onto her right side, slid over, and lightly shook Hisle.

“Shannon. Are you okay?” she asked in normal tone. Hisle didn’t respond. “Shannon! Shannon! Wake up! Wake up!” Carrie said urgently, shaking her shoulder harder.

Hisle started to stir.

“Shannon.” Carrie rubbed her arms and shoulders. “Stay with me.”

Shannon was shaking uncontrollably.

“Shannon, are you okay? You’re shaking.”

“I… don’t…” she stuttered. She didn’t finish the thought.

“Shannon, are you with me?”

“I’m not su…su…sure how much longer I can last.”

Carrie could tell that Shannon was breathing fast. She grabbed Shannon’s wrist and checked her pulse. Her heart was racing and there was almost a sweet fruity smell to her breath.

“Hang in there with me, Honey. Hang in there,” Carrie said, hugging Shannon, rubbing her arms and legs, trying to keep her comfortable and conscious. The lack of insulin had slowly been weakening Shannon. However, now, nearly four days without insulin, Carrie could tell that Shannon’s body was now rapidly succumbing to the lack of it. She put the flashlight to her watch: 2:18 PM.

“You’ll be okay, Shannon. They’ll be here soon. They’ll be here soon.” Carrie hoped that was the case. She was scared that Shannon didn’t have much longer.

31

“
Now we’re cooking with gas.”

3:08 PM

Mac ran the scenario round and round in his head as he and Lich drove north on County Road 81 into the northwestern suburb of Osseo. They were on to it now, finally. Smith and the Muellers were behind this. The motives were perverted, but if Mac could not understand them, he could at least see where they were coming from.

For Brown, it was the chief.

Charlie Flanagan hated dirty cops more than almost anything. In Brown’s case, he caught the DEA agent putting coke back onto the street to pay off gambling debts. It might have only been a one-time thing, but Brown was guilty and admitted it to Detective Flanagan. Peters told Mac that Brown had pleaded – flat-out begged – the chief to let it go. Brown was in counseling for his gambling and hadn’t placed a bet in ten months. Faced with the wrath of his bookie and his bookie’s muscle, he stole the coke to retire the debt. Brown told Flanagan he’d leave the bureau and law enforcement if he let it go. Brown also had a seriously ill daughter and was worried about what would happen to her.

Smith Brown simply didn’t know Charlie Flanagan. If you were dirty, you had to pay the price. Peters recalled Flanagan ruminating about what to do with Brown at the time, saying, “It would be one thing if he stole a couple of watches, a fur coat, maybe a TV from the evidence room, something like that. I wouldn’t condone it, but I would at least understand it. I could let
that
kind of thing slide. But stealing drugs,
coke
, and putting it back on our streets and all that comes with that?
That
I can’t look past.”

As Peters said, “You know the chief. It was a principle thing.”

Mac didn’t know what to think of it. He understood the chief’s position. But he doubted the chief thought Brown would end up with fifteen years in Leavenworth Federal Pen either. Life had to have been miserable in there, and the information they were finding said that was indeed the case. Fifteen years in prison is a long time to think. Especially after they also learned Brown’s daughter died after he went in, at least in part because his wife and child lost medical insurance. That only added fuel to the fire.

“He blames the chief for all of that, I’m sure,” Peters said. “I suppose I see how he gets there, but he’s wrong.”

“Smith might be wrong about the chief’s choices, Captain,” Mac answered. “But at the moment, he’s sitting with two aces in the hole.”

For the Muellers, it was Lyman Hisle, the man who killed their father.

The whole conspiracy was simple and made sense once you had the pieces. All of which made Mac more concerned about the ransom.