Deadly Stillwater

“My name’s Kleist, chief here in Ellsworth,” he said. Kleist was a short, squat man with a nose far too large for his face. “Haven’t touched a thing,” he reported, wiping his brow with a red handkerchief. “Heck, there hasn’t hardly been anyone passing by since we got here.”

“What did you find when you got here?” Lich asked.

“Not much,” Kleist replied, rubbing a finger hard along the side of his nose. “Phone was on the hook. But,” he waved them away from the phone toward a back exit onto the street, which traversed through a patch of bare ground and dirt, “if you look close enough, there appears to be some fresh tire tracks, I’d say car width, maybe a sedan of some type that those guys,” the chief pointed to the forensics team, “might be able to do something with.”

Mac and Lich peered down to the tracks. They were narrow, fresh and definitely from a car. Lich waved forensics over.

“Let’s get pictures, maybe even a mold,” he ordered. A forensics tech nodded and started snapping images.

“So they’re using vans and cars, eh?” Mac asked.

“Looks like it,” Lich answered. “Just another little wrinkle.”

Mac nodded.

“He didn’t just drive here and stumble onto this place either. He scouted it.” Mac motioned to the station. “This isn’t a bad spot really. The park looks almost abandoned, just a few homes around with little traffic, foot or car. Make a quick call, hang up, leave, and nobody sees a thing.”

They walked back over to Kleist, who’d returned to the hood of his sedan. “Chief, has anyone gone door-knocking?” Lich asked.

The chief thumbed at the other cop.

“He knocked on all the doors before you fellows got here. Only one person was home, and he didn’t see anything, said he was watching the Twins game. I’ve got another one of my men surveying the perimeter of the park and the nearby streets to see if a pedestrian saw anything.”

“I know the answer to this question,” Mac said. “I don’t suppose there’s any surveillance cameras, anything like that around here is there?”

Kleist smiled apologetically and shook his head.

“Nope. Don’t have the budget for it or the need really. Big night for us might be a fight at the bar, a little speeding or drunk driving, a domestic.”

“So if a guy makes a call here,” Mac waved around the area, “and then wanted to leave town, how would he do it?”

Kleist rubbed his nose hard again, and Mac noticed it was redder along the right side. The rubbing must be a frequent nervous tic.

“Oh, a guy would have a couple of ways to go I suppose.” The cop pointed northeast, “He could go back up 63 and get onto 94 and head back the way you boys came.”

“Or?” Mac asked.

“If a feller wanted a more scenic trip, he’d probably go southeast, out along 63 until it finds 10 over yonder, which would take him west to Prescott.” He rubbed the nose again, “or stay south on 63 until he got to Red Wing. In any event, he’d have plenty of…”

“Options,” Mac replied, shaking his head. “We know.”

The chief was called away by one of his men.

Lich didn’t miss a beat. “He said, ‘yonder.’”

“‘Feller,’ too,” Mac added. “I love small-town folks.” He shut up as Kleist headed back.

“I think I got something you boys might be interested in,” he said. An Ellsworth patrol car pulled up with an elderly man in the back seat, along with a golden retriever. The uniform cop got out and let the man and dog out. The dog came right up to Mac.

“Hey there buddy,” Mac said, kneeling down to scratch the pooch behind the ears.

“Explain,” Kleist said to the uniform cop.

“Henry here,” the uniform said, pointing to the old man, dressed in a striped short-sleeved shirt, plaid shorts, and dark socks, “said he was sitting on a park bench across the street about an hour ago, and… well…” The uniform pointed to the old man. “Tell them, Henry.”

“I was sitting on the bench over there.” The old man pointed kitty-corner from the gas station to an old bench with “Ellsworth Lions Club” painted on it in fading letters. “I was taking a rest with Reggie here.” The old man rubbed the dog’s head. “Anyways, I saw this blue sedan pull into that old gas station and park by the pay phone.”

“When was this?”

Henry pulled out a tarnished gold pocket watch and flipped the top open.

“Oh 7:30, 7:40 or so. Sometime around then.” Mac and Lich exchanged a look.

“What kind of car, Henry?” Mac asked.

“Chevy I think, one of them new ones, what do they call them, Impalas? I’ve never owned one myself; I’m a Ford man…”

“See a license plate number?” Mac interrupted.

“I know the letters because they were odd. They spelled ‘cat,’ I think.”

“Cat? You mean the letters were C-A-T?”

“That’s right,” the old man replied, his glasses sliding down his nose as he nodded. “And it was a Minnesota plate, had the blue color and them pine trees.”

“I’m going to call it in,” Lich said, pulling out his cell phone. Mac continued.

“How about the driver, you get a look at him?”

“Not a good one,” the old man said.

“Black or white? Blonde hair or dark hair? McRyan pressed. “Anything like that?”