12:03 PM
Shamus McRyan knelt down to tie closed a white box labeled Hammond et al. v. Easy Flow Systems, a class-action case, and reached for the next box. Shamus was in a row of files that covered the early to mid-1990’s.
“This search lead to anything yet?” inquired Percy Wallace, a rotund, black retired detective who was one of Shamus’s golfing buddies. Percy was supposed to be working the first tee as a starter at Highland National Golf Club. Instead, Shamus recruited him down to the storage garage.
“Not yet,” Shamus answered.
“Man, how many boxes we been through?”
“I stopped counting after twenty, and that was a while ago,” Shamus replied.
“So, what do we have here?” Percy asked, pushing the sleeves up on his golf pullover.
“Looks like Erickson v. TOM Trucking, 1994.” Shamus grunted as he moved the box and opened it up. Wallace grabbed a red-rope folder marked “Pleadings Vol. 1” and started scanning for information. Shamus grabbed another red-rope that contained deposition transcripts along with the correspondence file, which he flipped open to read the summary of the case. He found that reading the small summaries helped him understand the information he was looking at. The one paragraph summary on a now-faded green piece of paper indicated that Erickson v. TOM Trucking was a sexual harassment case brought by Barb Erickson and three other women against the owner of the trucking company, Thomas Oliver Mueller, hence TOM Trucking. A notation at the bottom of the summary noted the file was closed in 1994 after Lyman obtained a verdict of $3.4 million. Shamus smirked. Just another cool million for Lyman Hisle.
Wallace noticed Shamus reading the summary and asked, “What’s that sheet say?”
“Sexual harassment,” Shamus answered. “Appears the owner of the company liked to fondle the hired help.”
Just then Henry Brown, the Brown in Hisle amp; Brown, walked up. Summer had called him in to help supervise. He noted the name on the case and said, “I remember that one. I couldn’t believe that verdict.”
“Why’s that?” Wallace asked, looking up from the pleadings.
“Mediocre facts,” Brown answered. “Lyman offered to settle the case for a couple hundred thousand early on, but Mueller refused.”
“So they ended up at trial, then?” Shamus asked.
“Yeah, and Lyman did an absolute number on Mueller at trial. The jury came back and nailed him but good. I think the verdict eventually put Mueller out of business. His insurance didn’t cover harassment, and he had to pay the verdict out of his back pocket. For a little trucking company, $3.4 million is hard to swallow,” Brown said. He moved on to check on the next group.
Shamus grabbed the deposition transcript for Thomas Mueller and found the personal information for Mueller and his family. He looked to a young attorney from Hisle’s office named Ramler who’d come to help and was sitting at a laptop.
“Dougie, you ready?”
“Yes sir,” Ramler answered, his fingers at the ready.
“Good. I’ve got a Thomas Oliver Mueller…”
Peters ushered Mac and the boys into a small, windowless interview room. After a minute, the chief joined them. He was sleep-deprived and ill-looking, with large dark bags under his eyes. But his bright blue eyes were alert as ever, and he cut to the chase.
“What are you boys up to?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Mac replied.
The chief looked at Mac squarely. “I know you,” he said, and then pointed at the rest of the group. “I know all of you. Burton’s setting up for the ransom and has everyone waiting it out. They’ve run all the criminal connections between Lyman and me and crapped out, he says. The only possible lead is this safe house that we got a tip on yesterday. He says you guys have been sitting on that house for seventeen hours or something like that. You four? Sitting on a house for seventeen hours? I don’t buy it. That’s not your style, just sittin’ around and waitin’. So while we were in there, I was watching you,” he pointed at Mac. “I was watching all of you. Mac’s standing there, checkin’ his watch every two minutes. The rest of you are all looking around the room as if you’re looking for someone or something. And your body language says you’re not buying what Burton is sellin’. So what are you up to?”
Mac didn’t want to burden the chief further – the man was under enough stress as it was. But the jig was up. Mac glanced over to Peters, who nodded.
“We haven’t been laying back, Chief.”
“But whatever it is you boys are up to, nobody else in that room has a clue, do they?” the chief asked.
“They do not.”
“Why not? And I better not find out that this is some sort of fuckin’ pissin’ match.”
“It’s not,” Mac answered and then put all the cards on the table. “We’re worried the kidnappers have someone on the inside.”
“What?” the chief replied, stunned. “How did you reach that conclusion? How do you know this? Who is it? Is it one of our people, the FBI, who?”
“We don’t know,” Riley answered. “But all of us think someone is a source for these assholes.”
The chief was flabbergasted. He paced around the room, pinching the bridge of his nose and then sighed. “Tell me what you boys are thinking.”
“You better start from the beginning, Mac,” Peters suggested.
Mac started, “Chief, these guys have been ahead of us from the start.” He laid out what they knew about the two kidnappings, the woman working the inside, the calculated dropping and blowing of the vans, the setting-up of Drew Wiskowski, and the fact that the criminal-case connections between the chief and Lyman weren’t panning out. “These guys left next to nothing behind,” Mac said. “Then, at the safe house, after we searched it, we were sitting on it, watching from across the street.”
“That’s when things might have changed, Chief,” Riles added.
“How so?”
“Pat and I were talking to the owner of the house and his wife, and we start talking about when the kidnappers left the safe house.”
“So?”
“It was within minutes of his call. And then we talked about how the vans left in a hurry. Mrs. Hall said, and I quote, ‘they ripped out of there.’”
“That triggered all sorts of alarm bells,” Riley added. “We started thinking that maybe they got a tip.”
“That’s a pretty big stretch,” the chief replied, skeptical. “And you didn’t find anything in the house did you? No forensic evidence, right?”
“Not necessarily,” Lich answered, explaining the chipped paint on the basement beds. “It’s thin, but we think it was a safe house, the place these guys were operating out of.”
“And forensics is telling us that the house was cleaned at least twice in the days before we went in.”
Still, how can you know they were tipped off?”
“Other than the timing of when they left and how, we don’t,” Mac answered honestly. “My gut tells me something wasn’t right about it. And if they weren’t tipped off, why not come back?”
The chief nodded at that.
Mac continued, “We know that’s a little thin, but… I don’t know. It’s a gut feeling.”
“So what have you been doing to look into that?”
“Before I get to that, there’s one other thing that occurred to us last night,” Mac added. “We looked at all the connections for Lyman’s criminal cases to you, but one thing we weren’t looking at was Lyman’s civil cases.” He quickly related the story about the attorney getting chased with an axe in Minneapolis the day before. “We’ve looked at the obvious connections on the criminal side, so now we’re looking at Lyman’s civil cases. If someone is pissed enough to go after an attorney with an axe, why not do what the kidnappers are doing here?”
“So what are you doing?”
“We have people down at Lyman’s office and at an off-site storage unit looking through the civil cases, the harassment, discrimination, and class-action stuff.”
“There are thousands of names,” Riles added. “Plus Hagen…”
Hagen lorded over his computer, monitoring the program, swiveling back and forth in his chair, twirling a pen through his fingers when his monitor beeped at him with a hit. He sat up and clicked on the search result, which showed connections between a Smith Brown on the chief’s list and a David Mueller, the son of Thomas Oliver Mueller, a defendant in one of Hisle’s sexual harassment cases.
Sally noticed Hagen peering closely at the computer and walked over. “What do you have?”
“Connection of some kind,” Hagen answered, running his cursor over the screen, clicking on and reading various links. “Smith Brown, who was…” Hagen looked away from the computer to a binder-clipped packet of papers, flipping through it until he found Smith’s name, “…a DEA agent that Chief Flanagan put in prison fifteen or sixteen years ago, and a David Mueller, who occupied the neighboring cell at Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary.”
“Who’s Mueller?”
The computer whiz scrolled down the screen and whistled, “Son of Thomas Oliver Mueller, who Hisle sued back in the early ‘90s. It must have been a good case, because Hisle got himself a $3.4 million verdict.”
“Where are these guys now?”
Hagen clicked through several programs and brought up the federal prison system records, accessing the records for Leavenworth. After a minute he found the records, and they both whistled. “Brown finished his sentence six months ago, and Mueller has been out for nine months.”
“What are their current addresses?” Sally asked, pulling up a chair and grabbing a notepad.
“Brown has one in Chicago, and Mueller,” Hagen clicked on a different link, “Mueller has an address in Osseo.” Osseo was a small northwestern suburb of Minneapolis. “Is this worth a look?” Hagen asked, turning his gaze to Sally, who was furiously jotting notes down on a legal pad.
“Keep digging and I’ll ask Mac,” she said as she took out her cell phone.
“You have Hagen in this?” the chief asked. “How’d you swing that?”
Riles shrugged. “Warden at the workhouse is a friend of mine. All I had to mention was this involved you, and it wasn’t a problem. Anyway, Hagen’s got this computer program set up and is cross-referencing your list with Lyman’s. So if there’s a connection to be made, he’ll find it.”
Mac’s cell phone went off and he looked at the caller ID. “It’s Sally,” he said as he stepped into the hallway to take the call.
“So how many people are in on this?” the chief asked.
Riles chuckled. “Mac had Shamus call the cavalry. He recruited a whole boatload of retired guys to this off-site storage place. They’re out there, going through boxes of Hisle’s old files. They’re using laptops and putting what they find into this program that Hagen created. Apparently, the program is constantly searching the records for a match.”
“What’s he searching?”
“Social Security, IRS, INS, NCIC, federal and state prison systems, maybe more. Whatever we could access here, Hagen is accessing from the firm.”
“Here’s where you might have to provide some cover, Chief,” Peters added. “Our guy Scheifelbein has been providing Hagen access to this information and masking the access, hiding it from everyone else, so he might need a little chief-like protection if and when this comes to light.”
“Done,” the chief replied.
Peters nodded. Then Mac burst back into the room and looked to the chief. “Do you recall a guy you put away named Smith Brown?”
The chief looked down in thought for a moment and then looked up. “Yeah. DEA agent. That’s years ago, fifteen or twenty. He was holding back bricks of coke from busts here and putting it on the street. He had some gambling debts or something like that. I pinched a bookie, who fed me Brown for a reduction in his sentence, as I recall. It was at one of those times when drug enforcement was big with the first Bush administration and the U.S. attorney wanted to make a statement.”
“And you were heavily involved, right?”
“I busted him. You know how I feel about dirty cops.”
“So what do they have?” Lich asked. “What connects him with Hisle?”
“He was in a cell next to a guy named David Mueller, who was also in the pen for a federal drug charge,” Mac answered, reading from his notepad. “David Mueller was the son of Thomas Mueller. Thomas Mueller owned a trucking company that Lyman sued for sexual harassment. Lyman hit the jackpot with a $3.4 million verdict from a jury.”
“That’ll piss a guy off,” Lich said.
“Well, Thomas Mueller can’t be pissed anymore,” Mac said. “He committed suicide within a year or two of the verdict. The case killed his business. His wife left him, and his two sons were in prison for drug dealing, apparently trying to make money to help the old man save the trucking company. There’s a newspaper article Sally found from up in Chisago Lakes, where Mueller Lived. The article quoted his daughter Monica as saying between his sons being in jail, the loss of the business, and losing his wife, he simply couldn’t go on. And there’s one other thing.”
“Which is?” Flanagan asked.
“Mueller had two sons, both, it turns out, in Leavenworth. The other Mueller is named Dean. And there’s one other thing about the brothers. They’re…”
“Twins,” Lich finished. “They’re not just brothers, but twins, aren’t they?”
“Identical, in fact,” Mac answered. “They’re both six-three and about two hundred forty pounds, with dark hair, according to their prison records.”
“Damn,” Lich said. “Fuckin’ Fat Charlie actually came through for us,” he said, shaking his head.
“So, we have Brown, who the chief put in, and Mueller’s father, who Lyman put out of business and who then committed suicide. Mueller and Brown spend years in prison together and probably get to talking about how they both ended up in jail. Brown talks about the chief becoming chief. Mueller sees Lyman getting rich off of cases like the one that did in his father. The two of them probably start talking about payback, revenge. They were in the can together for what? Twelve years?” Mac said. “That’s a lot of time to talk about payback, to plan it and to get the courage up to seek it. Then they get out about the same time and put this all together.” Everyone nodded. Perverse as it was, the connection made sense.
“This could be it,” Riles said. “Brown was a DEA agent. He’s probably a pretty bright guy.”
“He was, as I recall,” the chief added.
“So he’s running it. He’s the voice on the phone,” Rock said. “He’s the one calling the shots.”
“The one who said Shannon was the appetizer and Carrie was the main course,” Mac noted. “It fits. Brown’s the brains of the operation.”
“And the Mueller brothers are the brawn,” Riles added. “They fit the general descriptions we had on both kidnappings. Big guys, dark hair, and so forth.”
“That looked like brothers,” Lich added, “just as Fat Charlie’s guy told us.”
Everyone nodded, running it through their minds.
“Where are these guys now?” Flanagan asked, breaking the momentary silence.
“I’ve got Sally looking into that,” Mac answered. “Dean and David currently share an Osseo address, and Smith apparently has an address in Chicago. Sally is calling CPD to have someone check on him, see if he’s around.”
“He’s not,” Peters said, pointing at Mac. “He’s here. These are our guys.”
“I bet they are,” Riles added, and then pivoted. “What do you think, Mac? Do we let others know? We might need their help.”
Mac thought for a moment, his arms crossed. “Not quite yet. If we’re right and someone is feeding Brown information, we don’t want to tip them off. We don’t know where the girls…” Mac stopped, aware of having spoken about the girls as if the chief wasn’t in the room. “Sorry, Chief.”
The chief didn’t flinch, “It is what it is, boyo.”
“We don’t know where these guys are, or where they have the girls. If they do have someone on the inside, and we come out with this, the kidnappers get tipped off and the girls could pay the price.”
“Agreed,” the chief said. “You don’t have much time. We’re getting a phone call at six. You’ve got…” everyone looked at their watches, 12:15 PM, “less than six hours.”