reporter named Tanya Morgan was currently making a live report from the St. Paul Police Department.
“Although the FBI and St. Paul police won’t go on the record, confidential sources have indicated that the two kidnappings appear to be connected. The abductions were conducted in similar matters, and the descriptions of the perpetrators are also similar.”
The program next cut to a statement from the Local FBI Agent-in-Charge Ed Duffy.
“We are working closely with the St. Paul Police and other jurisdictions to bring these girls home and the kidnappers to justice.
Smith particularly liked the next question from a reporter.
“We’re hearing reports of family members of the police and the county attorney’s office being assigned police escorts. Is this true?”
It was a no-win for Duffy, and his answer spoke volumes.
“I have no comment at this time.”
Smith liked the response. The police were most assuredly escorting people around town for safety, which meant fewer people looking for him. A pleasant development indeed. But if Smith liked that question, he loved the last one.
“Are the kidnappings over, or do you expect there may be another attempt?”
It was a tough question to answer, but to Duffy’s credit, he didn’t duck it.
“We can’t be certain. Everyone needs to be careful until we apprehend the kidnappers. People, particularly women, need to walk in groups. We need citizens to be vigilant and report any suspicious activity. One thing we do know is that the kidnappers tend to lay in wait at places where they know their targets will be. So people should vary their routines. And, if anyone notices any suspicious activity, they should immediately call…”
The FBI man gave the phone numbers, and then the show cut back to the two hosts, who began discussing the kidnappings as if they were experts. While they did, Smith motored south on State Highway 61 and into Hastings, a sleepy town on the far southeastern edge of the Twin Cities metro area. It is nestled into a curve of the Mississippi River as it ran east to join the St. Croix on the border with Wisconsin.
In Hastings, he stopped for a quick drive-through bite to eat, a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. He enjoyed the warm humid evening. A light southerly breeze moved the tops of the tall oak and maple trees as he drove south into a green sea of southern Minnesota farm country. The cornfields would definitely be knee-high by the Fourth of July. The radio predicted a continuing heat wave, with highs in the nineties and matching humidity. A heavy thunderstorm was forecast for later in the evening, which would be fine with him as long as they got their work done in time.
As he devoured the burger and fries, Smith drove further south on 61 to the tiny town of Miesville. The town was only four or five blocks long and appeared to be deserted. In reality, all of the town’s citizens appeared to be at or heading to the baseball field to see the Miesville Mudhens, the town’s legendary Minnesota townball team. Smith passed the park on his left, a throwback to a bygone era, with a large wooden grandstand and an outfield fence made of signs for every business and in every color of the rainbow. At the last block, he turned right and then left behind two enormous silver silos and stopped. He jumped out and put on magnetized temporary license plates. Back in the car, he turned around, pulled back onto 61 and continued south. Just outside of town, the highway expanded to two lanes in each direction, running parallel to the Mississippi River. He reached the quiet town of Red Wing just after 6:30 PM, and he fell in with the local traffic.
Smith drove through the town and past Red Wing’s historic St. James Hotel. Past the hotel, he took a left, crossing the bridge over the Mississippi River and into the Wisconsin countryside. In another forty-five minutes he meandered into the small town of Ellsworth, where he arrived at 7:30.
In Ellsworth, he drove down the main drag, getting a feel for the rhythm and pulse of the slow and easy small town. The storefronts were mostly closed, except for a few a small restaurants and retail shops, with the odd pedestrian strolling along. Further down, he motored past a set of playfields where kids played baseball and adults relived their youth on the softball fields. He chuckled as he saw a forty-something adult slide into second base, get called out, and jump up and start berating an umpire as if he were playing in the seventh game of the World Series.
Four blocks past the athletic fields, he turned left on a quiet country road heading north out of town. He went three more blocks and found the pay phone in front of the abandoned gas station, across the street from a small, sparsely populated and neglected city park. Smith had found the spot a few weeks earlier on a scouting trip. He pulled up to the phone, which was set at the height of his car window. He then scanned the park across the street, saw what he wanted and smiled. Taking his time, the kidnapper casually pulled on rubber gloves, fitting them tightly. The car idled as he dug into the duffel bag, pulling out the portable voice changer, the Dictaphone and a roll of quarters, which he spent a minute opening. Checking his watch, he noted the time was 7:42 PM.
After working Fat Charlie, Mac and Lich stopped in at police headquarters and picked up a packet of information on the connections between the chief and Hisle. As Mac drove the Explorer over to the chief’s home, Lich scanned the report, fifteen pages long, consisting of the possible suspects, details about the cases and their outcomes, and transcripts of the preliminary interviews.
As the car idled at a stoplight, Lich closed the file. Mac broke the silence. “Anyone on the list fit the mold?”
Lich sighed and shook his head.
“Not in an ideal sense.”
“Nobody worth a look at all?”
“Worth a look? Maybe a few. But this is off-the-top-of their-heads kind of stuff. Hisle’s had hundreds, maybe thousands of criminal clients over the years, as we saw with all those files this morning, so we’ve just started to dig in to all of that. And now we have the chief’s history to work through. So this is only the most partial of lists at this point.”
“One thing we probably do know, however,” Mac answered. “The answer lies somewhere in the files. Lyman’s and the chief’s.
“True enough. But between those two, we’re going to have a huge shit-pile of people to work through. Chief’s been a cop for thirty years and Lyman’s practiced law for damn near the same amount of time. Their paths have crossed many a time.”
“True that is. But somewhere in all of those cases is our connection.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Lich answered, but his voice took on a skeptical tone. “But I look at this list here,” he held up the three-ring binder, “and there are guys in here that may be worth a look but…”
“Not exactly blowin’ your drawers off?”
“Uh huh.”
“Is the list just known connections between Lyman and the chief?”
“At this point, yes, just the connections. Cases they both touched or remember touching.”
Mac pondered that approach as he pulled up to another stoplight.
“Anything come of the interviews with Hisle’s family and friends?” he asked.
“Not that I’ve heard. The FBI and our guys, Double Frank and your cousin Paddy did the interviews. Nobody noticed anything odd or weird. Shannon Hisle hadn’t mentioned anything to her family or roommate. Her roommate, who Hisle’s lived with for two years, reported no strange phone calls, men, vehicles, or anything odd. The roommate says Hisle is paranoid. She was mugged last year walking home from school and is particularly sensitive to people following or watching her. So, according to Paddy, and I quote, ‘Nobody’s seen shit, heard shit, wondered about shit, or noticed shit,’ end quote.”
“Well, that’s the same story with Carrie Flanagan.”
“Yeah?” Lich asked.
“Yeah. Riley said a couple of Duffy’s boys interviewed her roommate, coworkers, and family. Nobody was aware of any problems or noticed anyone odd hanging around. If Carrie was worried about someone, something, anything like what we’re looking for, she hadn’t confided in anyone about it.” Mac shook his head. “We’ve got nothing.”
“Hell, we’ve got less than that,” was Lich’s apt reply.
Mac slowed for another stoplight.
“All of this makes me raise my question again, do you think Hisle or Flanagan have anything to do with…”
