The St. Paul Conspiracy (7 page)

Lich, as usual, was lighthearted about the situation, “This should be a circus if the D.A.’s involved, especially when you drop the senator on them.”

Mac agreed. “Yeah, she’ll want the spotlight.”

“She’ll pee her pants.”

It was 6:30 p.m., and while it was chaotic in the rest of the Public Safety Building, it was quiet around the chief’s office as most of the support staff had left for the day. Mac knocked on the door, heard a “Come,” and they walked in.

The Department of Public Safety Building was a city government building and, therefore, alcohol and smoke free. So naturally the chief had a lit cigar in his mouth and had taken his bottle of Irish whiskey out, with himself, Captain Peters, and even the D.A. having a touch. There was also a woman in a blue suit sitting with her legs crossed on the couch. She had red hair pinned back in a swirl, stylish dark-rimmed glasses, and what looked like a nice pair of legs sticking out from her skirt. She too had a drink in her hand. For some reason, she looked familiar to Mac, but he wasn’t sure where he had seen her. Flanagan was digging in his desk drawer. He looked up as Mac and Lich entered and stood with two drink glasses in his hand, “Hello, boys. May I offer you a libation?”

Lich readily agreed. After a moment’s hesitation, Mac decided, what the heck, he was done for the day and heading to the bar afterwards anyway. Besides, a drink would help him break the news.

Once everyone had a fresh drink, the chief made the introductions. “As you boys know, that’s District Attorney Anderson.” He waved towards the couch with his drink, “The young lady over on the couch is Assistant District Attorney Sally Kennedy. Looks like you boys’ll be working with her on the case once you have a suspect.”

Mac and Lich shook Kennedy’s hand. Mac exchanged a look with her, something familiar. The chief then prodded Mac. “Go.”

“Well,” Mac started, “we may have a pretty good lead.”

“Do tell,” the chief replied lightly.

“Well, it could be...” Mac grimaced, “...difficult.”

“Spit it out,” Peters interjected.

Mac exhaled, “We got a witness who saw Senator Mason Johnson leaving Daniels’ place last night at 1:30 a.m. and another witness who saw him leave around the same time two nights ago. You put that with time of death between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m., and he starts looking pretty good for this.”

Silence. The chief pinched the bridge of his nose, and Peters’ mouth was agape. Everyone else had a look of disbelief on their face. After a minute, Anderson broke the quiet. “Whoa.”

“Yeah,” the chief added. “Mac, you better start from the beginning.”

“Yes, sir.” Mac related what Hernandez told them. He added in Chase and the other information regarding the senator’s car and the fact he was in town last night. Then he went into what he’d learned from Linda Morgan. They had prints from the scene that were different from Daniels’. They had yet to be matched. But they also had semen from which they would be able to get DNA.

That caused Captain Peters to let out a long whistle. “Son, you’re telling me we’ll get DNA from the semen?”

“That’s what Morgan says.”

“And prints?” the chief added.

“Yes,” Mac replied. “We’ll need to see if we can access the senator’s prints. I would assume that, as a federal employee, they are on file somewhere.”

“They are,” replied Anderson. “We can go to work on that if you’d like, chief.”

“I think we’ll need that, Helen.” Then to Mac, “Seems like your case is moving quickly in a certain direction.”

“At this point, yes. We’ll have to see the final autopsy report and think about how we’ll go about testing the senator’s DNA.”

“I don’t get it,” said Peters, “I mean, I’ve spent enough time around politicians. They always leave themselves a way out. What, he kills her and then just gets on a plane, heads to Washington and acts as if nothing happened?”

“Ever heard of Chappaquiddick?” That caused a chuckle, and Mac turned his head to look at Kennedy, who was smiling herself.

“She has a point,” said Mac, picking up on the line of thought. “Think this one out a little, it’s not that hard. Senator’s married. Maybe Claire says something about his wife. Asks, or better yet, demands that he get a divorce. He says no. She says, ‘If you don’t tell your wife, I will.’” Mac took a sip and continued, “Senator gets upset, says she can’t tell his wife. It’d ruin his career or at least do it a lot of damage. He just wants something on the side.”

“He’s a senator. It’s not unheard of,” Lich added.

“Yeah,” Mac replied, going on, “But Claire Daniels isn’t a woman to put up with that. She’s assertive, says she’ll do what she wants. They argue. It gets physical on the bed, gets out of hand. He grabs her around the throat. Can’t stop himself and strangles her.”

“Yeah,” Kennedy replied, thinking along with him, “Something like that could have happened. He’s killed her. He panics. He can’t call the police. He can’t be seen with her. He’s got to get out of there and as far away as fast as he can.”

Mac finished, “So, he goes home, composes himself and heads to Washington, acting like nothing happened.”

“Crime of passion?” offered Lich.

“Manslaughter” said Mac, nodding his head agreeably.

“You bet, detective.” Kennedy took a long swallow of her whiskey, leaned back into the couch and casually said, “He doesn’t go there with any intent of killing her. He wants to get laid, nothing more. Daniels, as you said, is getting sick of being his bed sheet.”

She was blunt,
thought Mac.

“So she says it’s either his wife or her. They argue, it gets physical, and before you know it, she’s dead.”

“Only one fly in the senator’s ointment” added Mac.

“Yup,” said Kennedy, now looking right at Mac with a little smile on her face,
a nice smile,
he thought, “Juan Hernandez coming down the sidewalk. Bet he didn’t count on that.”

“No, counselor, he didn’t. Hernandez puts him at the scene at the time of Daniel’s death.”

“But he’s gone too far down the path now. The senator can’t go back, so he has to keep going. Gets on the plane. Gets back to Washington. Hopes the guy didn’t recognize him. Maybe you and Lich don’t find him.”

“And you know what?” It was the chief now, making sure Mac and Kennedy didn’t monopolize the whole conversation, “if he were some average Joe, he probably wouldn’t have been noticed.”

Mac jumped back in, “But he’s not. We got Hernandez putting him there last night and the neighbor a couple of nights ago.”

“And we have samples of DNA and a print that, if they match the senator—” Lich started.

“He’s nailed,” Peters finished.

“I don’t know about nailed,” Kennedy replied, putting on the breaks. “We’re not even twelve hours into this thing. And we’re speculating here. There might be any number of ways this thing could go. But if we get DNA and print matches, it will be pretty tough—”

“—To create reasonable doubt,” said Mac, finishing Kennedy’s thought. “But...”

“...What?” Kennedy asked.

“I keep thinking about what the captain said. I’m having a hard time believing Johnson did this. He’s too smart. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Politicians aren’t any smarter than anyone else, and in some ways they’re dumber,” the chief replied, “No offense, Helen.”

“None taken,” though her look said otherwise.

“Can we leak anything to the media? That we have a lead, a suspect, anything?” asked Miller, pleading, looking weary.

The chief picked up on Miller’s tone, “I sympathize, but not yet. It shouldn’t be long, but we have to wait.” Flanagan, moving back to the topic at hand, asked Mac, “When will we have the autopsy results?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Flanagan continued. “I assume we’re in agreement that, at this point our prime, frankly only, suspect is the Senator.

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Okay. Helen or I suppose Ms. Kennedy,” the chief looked at Anderson, who nodded. “Tomorrow we’ll need to start looking into what kind of access we can get to Senator Johnson’s fingerprints.” Then he turned to Mac and Lich. “Mac, as soon as you get that autopsy report, you and Lich are back in my office. We need to move very carefully on this one. We’re dealing with a senator. He doesn’t get favorable treatment, but we don’t haul his ass in here without having our shit together. Understood? And not a word to the media about this.”

* * * * *

If you were in trouble with the law and you had money, Lyman Hisle was the man to call. His firm, Hisle & Brown had eighteen attorneys, all very busy. Busy attorneys were profitable attorneys. The firm’s offices were on the top floor of the World Trade Center in St. Paul. Hisle & Brown’s success had provided for plush office space, large offices, ornate furniture, and art. The offices proved a powerful aphrodisiac when recruiting lawyers and clients to come to the firm.

Twenty years before, Lyman had started out doing largely criminal defense work. His success had led to a comfortable living for him, and his skills as a trial attorney had not gone unnoticed. Then he took on a sexual harassment case for a former client. Lyman had offered to settle the case for $150,000 prior to trial and was rebuffed by the employer. At trial, Lyman made the harasser look like a monkey in the witness box. The jury returned a verdict of $1.2 million. Following the verdict, Hisle & Associates, as the firm was known then, expanded its practice from criminal work to include personal injury and discrimination litigation, specializing in class-action lawsuits. The judgments and settlements were worth millions to the firm. As the firm’s founder and main litigator, Lyman had amassed an impressive fortune. Those lucrative judgments and settlements over a period of ten years allowed Lyman to do two things. One, enjoy an exceedingly high standard of living, and, two, return to the practice he truly loved, criminal law. He was the best in town and only took on interesting cases. The potential case of Senator Mason Johnson qualified.

Lyman had known the senator for years and had been a frequent campaign contributor. The death of Claire Daniels had been on the news all day. That his friend might somehow end up caught in the middle of the case was a shock to the system. Lyman heard the senator’s recitation of the facts. He told them to sit tight for the time being; he would call them back.

The quandary for Lyman was how to advise the senator. Maybe a drink would help. He went to the small wet bar in his spacious office. He dropped a couple ice cubes into his glass and poured himself a Scotch. Back at his desk, he sat in his leather chair, kicked his feet up and looked out his thirtieth-story office window south over the Mississippi River. He gave his options some thought. The key was whether the police had the senator’s name.

As Lyman saw it, he could have the senator sit tight and see if the police connected him to Claire Daniels, the thought being that there was no sense admitting involvement prematurely if the police did not know he was involved. They might never connect Daniels with Mason. If he was to be believed, and Lyman did believe him at this point, he had nothing to do with her death. The downside was that, if the police did connect him, he looks guilty not coming forward. They would have to call him in. Additionally, it would get out to the media that the senator didn’t come forward. It could do irreparable harm to his political career. Gary Condit came immediately to mind. If there were a murder trial, not coming forward would not be good for a potential jury pool.

The other approach would be to come forward voluntarily to the police. A man walking in front of Daniels’ place had seen him on the street. The police probably had the senator by now, and while reluctant to call him in, they would eventually do so. If they went in voluntarily, offering information they had available, it might prove to be helpful to the investigation. Going this route, Lyman could get them to play ball, keep Mason’s name out of the media. Lyman may be a defense attorney, but he had defended St. Paul police officers on numerous occasions. He knew Charlie Flanagan well and could ask for discretion and would get it. Flanagan was as straight a shooter as there was, and he had no love for the media. If they went this way, it could save the senator’s career. And if there were a trial, at least he’d be able to say the senator came forward voluntarily. If nothing else, he might look better in front of a potential jury pool.

There was a knock on the office door. Summer Plantagenate, an associate specializing in criminal law, stepped into his office. She had assisted him on a number of occasions where he had represented St. Paul police officers. Her last couple of hours had been spent calling her contacts in the department.

“Come in. Care to refresh?” Lyman asked, holding up the bottle.

“Yes.”

Lawyers. The only bar they ever passed was the one for a license to practice law. Lyman filled a glass with Scotch and walked it over to Summer, who had taken a seat in one of the deep leather chairs in front of Lyman’s desk. “Have your contacts been of any help?”

“No,” she said disappointedly. “I tried every way I know how, but the people I know aren’t involved in the Daniels case.”

“Have you learned anything?”

“The detective running the case is named McRyan.”

“Michael McRyan?”

“Yeah. Do you know him?”

Lyman smiled. “That I do. Mac’s fairly young, but he’s been a detective for a few years, I think.”

“In any event,” Summer continued, “he’s met with Chief Flanagan twice today. The last guy I talked to told me that he heard McRyan was up meeting with the chief tonight, along with District Attorney Anderson.”

“Anything else besides McRyan?” inquired Lyman.

“They’re keeping a tight lid on this one. Nobody seems to know anything.”

“Hmmmm. Does that seem unusual to you?”

“Yes, a little.” Summer took a sip of her drink. “You can usually get something, but nobody involved directly in the investigation is talking.”

“Do you think they have our client’s name?”

“If I were going to Vegas, I’d say yes.”

“Because nobody’s talking?”

“Yes. That, and the fact that the district attorney is meeting with Flanagan. That’s not something that happens on a normal case this quickly.”