Deadly Stillwater

Mac and Lich flipped the top off a box and started working a file. The folders had notes, photos, statements, news clippings, and listings of evidence. For the next four hours, the group worked through the file folders, reading through cases and names, some of which were familiar to the cops in the room. Detectives made frequent comments on the file notes and the lawyer’s written evaluations of the detectives involved in the case. A few inspired snide comments directed at the attorneys in the room.

Possible suspects went into a pile so that current whereabouts could be determined. Detectives, vice cops, uniforms in plain clothes, and local FBI were already out of the streets, interviewing potentials. If something didn’t seem right, the cops or agents were to bring the potentials in for further questioning. It was tedious work, reading through case notes, getting a feel for Lyman’s clients, their families and witnesses in the case. Problem was, everyone was a potential suspect, whether a client, witness, or victim.

Mac was reading through a file when he ran across the name Bobby Jacobs. The name rang a bell.

“I remember this guy,” he said to himself. Bobby Jacobs was the debonair leader of a clever crew that the chief, a detective back then, had busted after a jewelry store heist. It was suspected that Jacobs had been involved in many high-end robberies: a bank, an armored car, and even homes, but the chief had no evidence to tie Jacobs to any of the others. None that was, until the chief busted a fence, who, in an effort to avoid a long prison stretch, spilled the beans about fencing for the Jacobs crew. Jacobs ended up with a much longer sentence, even though he’d been represented by Lyman. That might be motive.

“Riles?”

“Yeah”

“You remember Bobby Jacobs?”

“Hell yes,” Riles said with a smile. “One of the best damn crews I ever saw. Best the chief ever saw. They were damn good.”

“He had fourteen years in the can; he’d be out by now wouldn’t he?”

“Yeah he would, except…”

“Except what?”

“He’s dead.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, he died of cancer a few years ago while still serving the tail end of his sentence out at Stillwater.”

“How about the rest of that crew?”

Riles looked skeptical.

“Jacobs was the brains of that operation. The other guys made for a good crew, had good skills and all, but Bobby ran the show. But you know what?” Pat added, “Bobby Jacobs and people like him are what we should be looking at.”

Mac kept at it. He was looking through a file covering a builder who defrauded a loan company when Peters burst into the room, white as a ghost, shock on his face.

“What is it?” Riles asked, seeing the fear in Peter’s face. “Is it Shannon?”

Peters shook his head. “No. It’s worse than that. There’s been another abduction.”

“Who?” Mac asked, getting out of his chair and grabbing his suit coat.

“Carrie,” Peters responded. “Carrie Flanagan.”

That stopped everyone in their tracks, the room falling deathly silent.

“Flanagan? Any relation to the chief?” Burton cautiously asked Peters, who nodded slowly, responding in almost a croak.

“It’s his daughter.”

7 “ People see parts but not the whole thing.”

The crime scene was Fairview Avenue between Summit and Grand avenues on St. Paul’s far west side. Half a dozen squads were already on the scene, concentrated around the entrance to a parking lot of a natural foods store at the northeast corner of Fairview and Grand avenues. Another cluster of cops worked the entrance to an alley on the opposite side of the street. The abduction had taken place in the midst of a commercial area bounded by the natural foods store, a small bank across Fairview, and a couple of restaurants across Grand.

Patrol was holding everyone, asking questions, taking notes, talking on radios. Sirens signaled more units were on the way, flooding the area around the crime scene. The whole of Fairview Avenue between Summit and Grand was already taped off. Any van within the area was being pulled over. A helicopter hovered overhead. The media, on alert since yesterday for any breaking news, was already on the scene, filming the action. With the noon hour just minutes away, they’d be reporting live on the news shows. Dozens of onlookers were gathering around despite the weather, already ninety-two degrees with matching humidity.

Mac and the others climbed out of the Explorer, walked under the crime scene tape and took in the scene. Outside his truck only thirty seconds, Mac could feel the sweat beading on his brow, his sunglasses fighting to keep the glare of the day out. He checked his watch, 11:57 AM, the sun directly overhead now, the heat of the day rising.

A uniform cop named D.B. Skrypek ran up with a notepad.

“Whatcha ya got, Pecker?” Mac asked, using the patrolman’s well-worn nickname.