Deadly Stillwater

Jones rewound a couple of frames, and then pushed play again. The kidnapper leaned down, picked up the pipe, and turned right. The pipe passed the rear window. “Right there,” Jupe pointed. “Look at that reflection in the rear window. Something is sticking out of the top of the pipe. It’s only there for an instant but I think we might have a receipt.” He ran the video back a few frames and started it again.

“I think you’re right,” Shawn said as he looked closer at the screen. “It’s a little fuzzy, and it looks like maybe only part is sticking out of it.”

“Yeah it’s fuzzy, but I have just the thing that will allow us to get more out of this,” Jupe answered, moving the mouse around again, this time opening up a new program.

Mac pulled up to Old Files to find four people and a North St. Paul squad car parked and waiting. Two cops leaned against the cruiser. Mac jumped out and introduced himself to the patrolmen, a younger one named Ball and an older one named Woodcock.

“Have you been inside yet?” Mac asked.

“No. We were waiting on you,” Ball answered.

“It’s my understanding that this guy is being inflexible. I also don’t have a search warrant. I may need you to back me when I get in this guy’s grill.”

“This relates to the Flanagan thing?” Woodcock asked.

“It does.”

“Our chief said we extend whatever assistance you need. We’ll back your play, whatever it is.”

“Let’s go then.”

The group walked inside to find the security guard waiting at the front desk. Mac showed his shield. “We need to get more people back to the storage area.”

“This is North St. Paul, not St. Paul,” the guard answered with attitude. “You don’t have jurisdiction here.”

“Fine. As you can see, these two officers here are North St. Paul Police.”

“We’d like you to give access to Detective McRyan and the rest of his crew here. They need access regarding an important investigation.”

“”Does he have a search warrant?”

“He does not,” Woodcock replied. “Nevertheless, he and the rest of these folks need to get back there.”

“Can’t do it,” the guard replied. “Against the rules. Only one person can be back there at a time. You get a search warrant and I’ll comply.”

Mac blew up.

“Listen, shithead. We don’t have time for that. I and these other people will be going back there whether you like it or not. You stand in my way, you’re going to end up in handcuffs.”

The guard looked to the North St. Paul officers. “Are you going to let him get away with this?”

“Yes,” Woodcock answered plainly. “I’d suggest you let the man pass.”

Mac walked by the front desk, waving the others to follow, which they did.

“Where are we going, by the way?” Mac asked, now that he was past the front desk.

“The storage rooms you need are fifty-eight through sixty in the way back,” an attorney named Neumann replied.

“There are three rooms?”

“Yeah.”

“Cripes,” Mac groaned.

“What can I say,” Neumann said, shrugging his shoulders. “Lyman’s had a lot of work over the years.”

The storage rooms themselves were ten feet wide, fifteen or so feet deep. Each room contained a wall of white boxes. Lyman Hisle had practiced law for over thirty years, and at least the first twenty to twenty-five years of practice records waited here.

Mac looked at the four people from Hisle’s firm and suddenly felt like Chief Brody in Jaws. Except that, instead of saying, “You’re going to need a bigger boat,” he was thinking, “We’re going to need a bigger crew.” He looked to Neumann. “How many more people can you get down here?”

“Let me call Summer. I bet she’ll be able to get us more people,” he replied.

“Do that,” Mac answered and then opened his own cell phone and dialed. It was early, but the voice he was looking for answered on the second ring. “Shamus, I need you to get as many old hands as possible over to Old Files on Highway 36.”

“More cops?” Neumann asked Mac, a concerned look on his face.

“Retired ones.”

“I don’t know about that,” the lawyer started. “There’s privileged information in there…”

Mac cut him off. “There’s no time to argue about this. They’re not going to do anything other than help. They’re retired detectives. They’ll know what’s important.”

26 “ We’ve got eight hours.”

Carrie awoke and lifted her head, only to hit the roof on the box. Reality immediately set back in. She turned on the flashlight and shined it on her watch: 8:03 AM. They’d been in the box for somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-six hours now. No water or food for all that time, if not more, and Carrie could feel the weakness in her body, the dryness in her mouth as she moved her tongue around, trying to moisten things. She turned the light to Shannon, who started to stir. Shannon looked weak and groggy. Carrie shook her arm to bring her back.

“Shannon, wake up honey.”

Shannon didn’t move right away. Carrie shook her arm harder.

“Shannon, wake up! Wake up honey!”

Shannon slowly started to awaken. “Where are we?” she said weakly.