11
A 2006 Chevy Impala with license tag CAT was a fleet vehicle belonging to Drew Wiskowski Construction in Cottage Grove. The connection was Drew Wiskowski, Sr.
Wiskowski had come to St. Paul thirty years ago from the south side of Chicago, and he brought with him the sort of no-hold-barred approach to business characteristic of that notorious neighborhood. Wiskowski made his fortune in construction, but it wasn’t always pretty. There were disputes with competitors, and Wiskowski wasn’t shy about using a little force, corruption, and intimidation to get ahead. He had more than one run-in with the authorities and building inspectors in his early days. However, once he made his pile and could afford his estate on the river down by Hastings, he went low-profile and let his money pile up while quietly building reputable homes and commercial buildings in Minnesota and the rest of the Upper Midwest.
Unfortunately, four years ago the long-dormant Wiskowski name came alive again. This time it was Drew Jr. who turned up in St. Paul running a home-improvement business. He was using the old man’s name, but Drew Sr. was not involved in the business; it was owned solely by his son. And the son appeared to be taking a page from the early years of his old man’s playbook.
A powerful thunderstorm with straight-line winds rolled through town, damaging roofs and siding and blowing out windows. The storm hit some of St. Paul’s Hmong neighborhoods particularly hard. Drew Jr. swooped in and marketed his home-repair business hard in those areas. The damaged houses needed new siding and shingles. Wiskowski low balled all of the other contractors and consumed all of the business. Many of the Hmong folks didn’t speak or understand English well, so Wiskowski said he’d work with their insurance companies directly, handling everything if they’d just sign over the insurance check to his company. The result was predictable. Drew Jr. defrauded the homeowners and did substandard work on their homes, if any work was done at all.
Drew Jr. may have profited, but he underestimated the Hmong community. They went to the police, and the story made its way to the chief, who made it his personal mission to go after Drew Jr. Lyman was originally Drew Junior’s lawyer, since he was on retainer with the old man. But Lyman knew right away it was a bad case — the kid was a swindler, and that he wanted no part of it. Lyman found a way out of the case, and Drew Jr.’s defense was eventually handled by a lesser lawyer. The younger Wiskowski ended up with six years in Stillwater state prison.
“That was four years ago,” Lich said as Mac sped across the Interstate 94 over the St. Croix River and into Minnesota.
“So he’s coming after the chief and Lyman. An eye for an eye then, their daughters for his son. It makes some sense in a warped mind sort of way. How did Junior buy the farm in prison?”
“Apparently,” Lich said, “the kid was an operator inside, and went a little too far. Two months ago a fellow inmate on a life sentence shoved a shiv up his rectum, and Drew Jr. bled out.”
“Ouch,” Mac said grimacing.
“Not my preferred way to go either. Anyway, the old man and his other son went batshit in an interview on the radio.”
“Ahh, I remember hearing about that,” Mac replied, swerving through traffic.
“Yeah. He blamed the chief and the police for his kid’s death, claiming his kid never did anything wrong. He specifically ripped Lyman a new one because he withdrew from the case, claiming his old friend turned his back on him when he was most in need. He ripped the department because his other son was busted for pot possession after Drew Jr. ended up in the can, and Wiskowski claims it was a frame. So he’s got plenty of bile built up for us. And there’s one other thing.”
“Which is what?”
“Drew Sr. has cancer — terminal,” Lich said. “He found out maybe a month ago, and he’s going fast.”
“So what’s he got to lose?” Mac fished. “Take a last shot at the men you think are responsible for the death of your son before you’re six feet under.”
“Or so the theory would go,” Lich said agreeable.
“It’s a good theory,” Mac answered. “Wiskowski is smart, wealthy enough to hire people willing to help him, he’s got the motivation, and he doesn’t care what happens to him.” He thought about it for another minute and then said gravely. “If he doesn’t care, that may not bode well for the girls.”
“Agreed,” Dick answered. “We gotta move fast on this.”
“Then I assume they’re bringing the old man in?”
“As we speak. There’s a convoy coming up 61 now from Cottage Grove. Riley, Rock, Burton, and Duffy all went down and are bringing Ol’ Drew back up right now. We just might beat them there.”
The distance lit up brightly with multiple lightening strikes as Mac pulled into the police department parking lot.
“With this storm and Wiskowski coming in, we’re going to get thunder, lightning, and fireworks all at the same time,” Lich said with amusement.
He couldn’t have been more right. As Mac and Lich jumped out of the Explorer, the convoy carrying Wiskowski arrived, four cars strong.
“No, no, no,” Mac groaned as the convoy stopped at the steps, right where the newsies were waiting. The media had clearly gotten wind of the Wiskowski connection and descended on the convoy like locusts. “They should have gone in the back.”
“This should be interesting,” Lich mused. “Let’s hold back and let them get in. Besides, you should let Riles and Rock have some media time. We’re all sick of seeing your handsome mug on TV anyway.”
“Fine by me. I hate the media.”
“Riiiiiight,” Lich said rolling his eyes in disbelief.
“Whatever, asshole,” Mac answered angrily. He didn’t like the media exposure for any number of reasons. He knew he was a damn good cop, smartest in the department, but he was still in his early thirties and mindful that senior cops didn’t always like the young hotshot getting all the attention. But for now, he was out of the picture. The horde followed Wiskowski, and it wasn’t pretty.
Wiskowski was as sick as Dick had suggested. Drew Sr., with an oxygen tank and IV in his left arm, was slowly walked up the steps by a woman, dressed like a nurse, and a man in an expensive suit, probably his attorney. With the crush of media pushing in to take pictures and yell out questions, and the cops pushing back in kind, trying to keep them away, something bad was bound to happen, and it did. All the jostling caused the old man to be pushed sideways, and he fell to the steps, yelping in pain as the needle for the IV was yanked out of his arm.
“We better get in there and help,” Mac said running toward the crowd, Lich right behind. They got into the group in time to hear Wiskowski scream bloody murder.
“You get this on film. These bastards took my son and now he’s dead. They’ve tried to take my other son away. Now I’ve got cancer and it still isn’t enough for them. When will it be enough for those people? When!?” He hissed as Riles picked the old man up as gently as he could. “I can’t be allowed to die with any dignity,” he growled in a raspy voice. “I’m going to sue this city. The police in this town are out of control. The mayor, it’s his damn fault, letting Flanagan run roughshod over him all the time.” Wiskowski railed and then coughed uncontrollably, the cancer sapping his angry energy. But the fight was there, and he looked ready to stir the pot.
“Look what they’re doing to me! Before this is done I’m gonna own this damn city. I’m going to own Charlie Flanagan’s ass.”
With Wiskowski having gone down and now providing some good copy and footage, the media backed off just enough. This allowed Mac, Lich, and several uniforms and plainclothes who’d come from inside to help, to surround the group so the old man could be led into the building.
When the doors closed, the media focused on Mac.
“Detective McRyan, can you confirm that Drew Wiskowski Sr. is the prime suspect in the kidnappings,” a petite brunette yelled, sticking a Channel 8 microphone in his face.
“No comment,” Mac answered.
