The St. Paul Conspiracy (19 page)

Mac was of two minds about it. He welcomed the chance to work the case. Cases like this were why he wanted to be a detective in the first place. It was the kind of case his dad would have loved.

However, Mac worried about his friend Pat Riley, who was heading the serial killer detail. The case was beating the shit out of him, and now they were putting the new hotshot on the case. Thankfully, Riles had made it easy, seeking Mac and Lich out, welcoming them, saying the case could use a fresh set of eyes. Pat gave them both a file, the “Cliff Notes” version he called it, to get them up to speed. They could spend time with the full case files in the days to come.

The short file told Mac that they were dealing with a cold, calculating killer. There had been six deaths to date. The last two had only been seven days apart, and the concern was that the killer was picking up his pace. Mac remembered thinking that the Daniels case would take the heat off the chief for a while. It lasted all of four days until they found the sixth body on the following Tuesday.

The file revealed that the investigators, despite six murders, had little solid evidence on the killer, just speculation.

The one certainty seemed to be the victims. With the exception of one, they were working-class women. They worked shifts that usually ended between 10:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. They were physically similar women, nondescript in appearance, medium height, thin and not physically strong.

Once he had the women, the serial killer strangled and then sexually assaulted them. He used a Trojan condom. Other than that, he left no traceable evidence behind. He wore gloves. He never left pubic hair, and they suspected that he shaved the area around his genitals, or perhaps was using a prop to complete the sexual assault. After strangling and assaulting the women, the asshole would dump the bodies in vacant lots in close vicinity to University Avenue. When he dropped the bodies, the killer left his signature, a balloon with a smiley face—“Have a Nice Day.” Riles said it was his way of rubbing their faces in it.

The FBI had been brought in to complete a profile, and their opinion was chilling. Their killer was a white male, since all of the victim’s were white, and serial killers tended only to kill women of the same race. The killer was of strong build and good agility, able to take the women quickly without being seen or heard. He was likely a loner who lacks social skills and has struggled with women.

The victims were very average or ordinary looking women. The killer likely considered himself to be in this category as well, yet had had little success with such women or women in general. He likely sought out women of this type because of some past stressor or experience in his life with a working-class woman or women. This past experience, likely involving rejection of some kind, had stuck with him, something that he hadn’t gotten over, that ate away at him and had finally come to the surface and caused him to seek out and kill these women. Nonetheless, he likely needed to have a woman in his life, despite his failings. In this regard, he might still live with his mother.

The areas where the women were found suggested he was a resident of or worked in the area. The killer, if he worked, did so during the day, as the women generally were abducted at night. His ability to get away undetected suggested he had watched the women for days ahead of the abduction, which required surveillance at night. It was likely that he prowled from place to place, looking for his target. Once identifying the target, he spent nights watching her every move, looking for the best place to take her. He then found privacy, perhaps in a van, or at some other location, maybe even his home, to commit the sexual assault. The dump locations and the leaving of the balloon was a way of feeling superior, pulling off the killing and being able to leave a calling card behind.

The sexual assault provided evidence of someone looking to have dominance over women. Poor, unsuccessful relationships or ones in which he was dominated were likely what caused him to act out in this fashion. In his life, he hadn’t been able to get women to do what he wanted. Once he strangled them, killed them, he had dominance over them, he could do what he wanted, however he wanted. Then, once the assault was complete, the final act became symbolic—dumping the body like garbage in a vacant lot, the dominance over the woman complete.

His ability to identify his victims, abduct them and get away almost completely undetected suggested some level of training, perhaps police or military. The ability to leave no evidence behind also spoke of some level of training or education in this regard.

For Mac, the scariest part of the profile was the opinion that the killer had a taste for the killing now, was perfecting his work, getting better at it. He would not stop. The FBI suggested the killer would keep a diary of the events, preparing to share his work with someone at some point in time. He likely spent time with the diary, reliving his acts, reveling in them.

Having seen the FBI’s success with profiling, Mac suspected much of what the FBI said was true. Unfortunately, following up on the FBI’s profile had proven unsuccessful.

Outside of what they knew about the victims and the FBI profile, direct evidence on the case was thin. The best piece of evidence they had was that he was probably using a van. Witnesses on two occasions had seen a van in the vicinity where a body was dumped. One witness saw a man run out of the vacant lot and get into a van. Problem was he was at least a block away. He couldn’t see plates or any other identifying features of the van, other than the taillights, which flashed and were thought to be for a Ford Econoline. The investigative detail didn’t have a color of the van, other than dark, probably black, brown, or blue. It was a van like a thousand others seen on a daily basis anywhere in town driven by delivery or repair guys.

The detail had run Minnesota license plate searches for felons with a history of sex crimes, who owned vans and perhaps had military or police training. There were a couple of hits, but they’d been quickly eliminated. There was more for Mac to read, but the condensed version got him up to speed for at least his first day.

Mac dropped the Explorer in the parking garage and walked into the Department of Public Safety Building. There was a detail meeting set for 8:15 a.m.; it would be his and Lich’s first. As Mac walked in, he heard a horn beep behind him; it was Lich. Mac waited, and Lich quickly got out, wearing his old beige topcoat, replete with dirt and coffee stains. Columbo wouldn’t have been seen in it. He didn’t have it buttoned, couldn’t over his potbelly. A gravy brown fedora covered his dome. However, the suit was the prize, faded green, with a faded yellow dress shirt and green tie with large gray stripes. His shirt needed collar stays as the tips flipped up.

Mac shook his head. “You don’t let Dot see you like this, do you?”

“What?” Lich replied, holding his hands out.

Mac cackled. “What? What? I shouldn’t even be seen with you.” Mac wasn’t necessarily going to be in
GQ
, but he looked good, dressed in a charcoal suit, gray dress shirt, and dark black tie. The tie was new, his first gift from Sally.

“Dot’s only interested in what’s on the inside, bitch,” Lich replied, grabbing his crotch. Fifty-two, and he talked like he was twenty-two.

Mac shook his head and walked inside. Riley’s detail had taken over a large conference room. At one end was a white board that contained notes, facts and information regarding the case. The detectives assigned to the case were listed, along with assignments. Lich and Mac were listed on the bottom, nothing assigned to them as of yet.

On the other end of the conference room was a bulletin board that included a detailed St. Paul street map. The homes of the victims were marked with blue pins, their work sites with green, and the locations their bodies were found in red. The victims were marked with numbers one through six, and information about each was typed on white sheets posted to the right of the map. In the middle of the conference room was an industrial metal table with old metal chairs that had green vinyl padding on the seat and backs. The conference table had three telephones, three thermoses, and two stacks of Styrofoam cups. There were a couple spare packs of sugar and a nondairy creamer container, crushed in the middle from over use. The room smelled faintly of body odor, the product of numerous hours of work on the case.

Members of the detail, eight strong—now ten with Mac and Lich— started to file in. They walked over and warmly welcomed the two new detectives. Mac had worried about the reception, but he imagined that Riles had laid down the law. As everyone milled around and exchanged pleasantries, Mac looked at the dump spots on the map.

Bobby Rockford, one of the detectives on the detail walked over, “Mornin’, Mac.” Rock was big, six-foot-three, two hundred-fifty pounds, shaved head, with bright white eyes that contrasted against his black skin. He was scary when he smiled, with a gap you could drive a truck through between his two front teeth. A former Division II defensive tackle at Mankato State University, Rock was not a man to be trifled with. Paired with Riley, who was also at least six-foot-three, they were a physically imposing pair.

“Hey, Rock,” Mac said, then looked back to the map. “Checking out where he’s dumped the bodies.”

“Yeah, he’s a smart fuck,” Rock gestured with his coffee cup “Every location has at least three ways out. The asshole probably never leaves the same way he goes in.” He took a sip of his coffee. “In each spot, he only has a block or two to get back onto University, where a van—if we’re right about that—wouldn’t be viewed as being out of place, no matter the time of day.”

Mac nodded, “I imagine he probably scouts his drop locations as well. He’s probably familiar with the area—who lives there, who drives what vehicle, who’s up at late hours.”

“Yada, yada, yada,” Rockford replied, nodding. “You read the FBI Profile on this guy right?”

Mac nodded.

“They think he might be some sort of ex-military or ex-cop, the way he conducts surveillance, attacks them in ideal spots, leaves nothing behind and gets away undetected. He’s good, the fucking prick.”

Mac looked at his watch, 8:25 a.m. He wondered where Riles was.

Just then Riles came in, looking harried and anxious. He looked out to everyone and announced, “We have a balloon. Vacant lot on Myrtle, between Cromwell and Hampden. Let’s go.”

The air was sucked out of the room immediately. On a cold and blustery November day, number seven was awaiting their efforts. Nothing like baptism by fire, Mac thought.

Chapter Sixteen

“They haven’t caught a break yet. Not one.”

Myrtle Street was located in the industrial end of University Avenue on St. Paul’s northwest side. That end of town was dotted with an assortment of manufacturing operations behind small sidewalk stores, ethnic shops, and numerous small bars with names like Ace’s Place and Pete’s Canteen. Mac and Lich drove over in their department-issue gray sedan, turning left at the GasUp station on the corner of Hampden and University. They went one block and hit a dead end, the only way they could go was right on Myrtle and the vacant lot was half way down on their left. A coroner wagon, two squads and Riley’s unmarked were already there.

The body had been dropped in a vacant lot filled with knee-high weeds and brush. Bottles, cups, rusted barrels, newspapers, an old recliner, and dirt piles littered the landscape. There was one sickly tree and the outline of the old foundation of a house that once had occupied the lot. The uniforms had taped off a large area around the body as well as along the street.

On both sides of the vacant lot were chain link fences covered with vines, tall unkempt shrubs, and weed trees. The combination of vegetation made it virtually impossible for nearby houses to see into the vacant lot. The back wall of the Hancock Foundry spanned the backside of the lot. There were no windows and one lonesome set of double doors, with a dumpster to the left, one lid up and one down.

Across the street stood old two-story, white, wood-sided houses with steep, pitched roofs. They all had a solid, bland, wood front door and single picture window on the front with a metal awning. All the same style, built some seventy years earlier. The metal awnings and front doors were all different colors, the only thing differentiating the houses. The properties were not well tended, most having untidy yards. It was a poor, working-class neighborhood.

Riley was crouched by the side of the body, taking notes, while two crimescene techs examined the body, one of them speaking into a Dictaphone. Mac and Lich stood fifteen feet away. Mac couldn’t make out much about the victim, other than she was nude, wrapped partially in plastic. He could see her legs and she fit the profile—thin, medium height. The balloon, tied around her ankle, bobbed and weaved in the November wind, smiling at him. Jeering.

The rest of the detail arrived shortly thereafter. Riley saw everyone coming and got up out of his crouch. He nodded for them to follow him over to the street. Everyone gathered around. Riles quickly gave out orders. They needed to canvas the area around the lot.

“Who found the body?” somebody bellowed.

Riles looked down towards the other end of the street towards the city workers digging up what looked like a sewer line. “One of the guys came over here to take a piss and saw the body. He’s over working with his crew. I’ll take Lich and McRyan over to talk to him.” Everyone else spread out to take up their assigned tasks of what would likely be another fruitless search for anything on this guy.

A uniform fetched the city guy who had found the body. His name was Myron Dix, a large, rotund African American who looked to be in his early fifties, with a bushy gray beard. He was wearing his City of St. Paul hardhat and orange work vest over his tan canvas work suit, a smoke hanging out the side of his mouth. Mac admired the canvas work suit; it undoubtedly was warm, and he was already chilled. It was forty degrees, but with the wind howling it felt more like twenty.

Dix and his crew had arrived for work at 7:00 a.m. They had gone to work and didn’t notice anything right away. “Anyway, around 7:45 a.m. or so, my two cups of coffee hit me, and I needed to piss,” Dix said. “I’d usually get into the truck and hit a gas station or something, but with the vacant lot so close, I wandered over there.” Never mind the fact that urinating in public was against the law and this guy was a city worker.