Viper yawned. It had been a long night. After a couple hours’ sleep, he was back to monitor the situation. Sitting in the back of a blue van parked on the northeast corner of Summit and St. Albans, he looked back at Daniels’ brownstone one-hundred-fifty yards away through tinted glass. A crowd had gathered, and a number of uniformed cops controlled the situation, putting out the yellow crime scene tape, keeping people to the other side of the street. It was 8:15 a.m.
Viper took another drink of water, avoiding the coffee the rest of his crew swilled. He rarely drank coffee. It was bad for the system, and he was a self-professed health nut, except for the occasional beer or glass of wine. He would have to watch it though, or he’d have to hit the can, and he didn’t want to leave the van. He wanted to make sure events started and stayed on the proper course.
A couple of detectives, a young blond-haired one in a sharp blue suit and an older bald guy in a rumpled shit-brown suit were talking on the front porch of the condo. Suddenly the young detective looked down and flipped up the mat. The key. Viper figured they’d find it. That was fine by him. No evidence of forced entry, meaning someone had a key or easy access to one. The senator, when they found him, would have to admit he used it. His prints would be on it.
Viper trained the binoculars on the young cop and watched him reach for his cell phone. It was a brief call, thirty seconds at most. He looked to the bald detective, said something and pointed away from the condo. They walked down the steps and looked to be leaving. Then they stopped, turned and climbed the steps to the neighbor’s condo to the right of Daniels’. The young detective pointed in a few directions, and the other detectives nodded. Directions given, the younger detective and the bald one left the porch and headed to the south and out of sight.
Viper thought a little more about what he had just seen. It looked like the young cop was in charge of the situation. He couldn’t be much over thirty years old. Yet, he seemed to be the one giving directions, with everyone else nodding when he talked. The bald guy, much the younger detective’s senior, hadn’t said much at all. Viper wondered why such a young cop would be calling the shots on a high-profile case like the death of Claire Daniels. He would have someone make a call. Maybe they caught a break.
As Mac walked through the door and into the St. Paul Public Safety Building, the intensity of the day hit him in the face. Faces were taut, voices low and serious. It was not St. Paul’s finest day, and all eyes were on the department. The desk sergeant saw Mac and Lich walk in and directed them up to the chief’s office.
Charles Flanagan had been chief of the St. Paul Police Department for eight years. At fifty-four years old, he was a thirty-three-year veteran of the police force who had worked his way up from uniform cop to chief. He was a tall, slender Irishman who seemed to have aged ten years in the last month, largely due to the serial killer. His once bright red hair had turned gray.
Chief Flanagan knew police work but, to put it charitably, the politics and public relations aspects of his job were not his strengths. His saving grace was that he had the complete and total support of the force, unusual for many big-city chiefs. He was, as Mac’s uncle Shamus liked to say, real police. The chief always stood behind his men. While that made him popular with the rank and file, it occasionally made him some enemies at City Hall, enemies now making his life miserable. Mac had known him for as long as he could remember. He had been with Mac, Shamus and Pat Riley, another St. Paul detective, when Mac’s dad was shot and killed.
Mac and Lich walked into the chief’s outer office, and his secretary led them in. As they entered, the chief looked up. He walked to Mac, shook his hand warmly and said, “Mac, it’s nice to see you, boyo.”
“Good morning, Chief. Nice to see you as well.” The chief’s appearance told Mac what kind of day it had already been. The suit coat had been jettisoned, the tie and collar loosened, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up. There were three coffee cups on his desk, all half empty. If Mac didn’t know better, he got a faint whiff of cigarette smoke, although a quick scan failed to reveal an ashtray.
“Lich, how are you?”
“I’m fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”
“Well, boys, the shit’s hittin’ the fan. We’ll be speaking with the media soon,” Flanagan said, wincing. “I know you probably don’t have much, but Peters, Sylvia, and I need an update. So,” the chief said, pointing to Mac, “give us what you’ve got.”
Mac pulled out his notebook to give the basic run down. He finished with, “Forensics preliminarily puts time of death between midnight and 2:00 a.m.”
“How’d the killer get in? Were there any signs of forced entry?” asked the chief.
“Not so far.” Mac replied, explaining about the new door locks and key they found.
“Anything missing?”
“Doesn’t seem to be,” Mac answered. “The house isn’t ransacked in any way. She had jewelry in her bedroom, some fairly expensive pieces, which appear to be undisturbed. So, at this point, it looks like whoever got in was let in, or had a key. Maybe a boyfriend.”
“Do we know anything about who she was seeing?”
“Not yet. We’ll need to get down to the station and talk to the people she worked with. Maybe we’ll learn something there.”
Sylvia Miller, the department spokeswoman, piped in. “The media knows that it’s Claire Daniels. I’ve already been getting calls, and they, being the media, want to know when we’ll have something to say. What can we offer at this point?”
Mac was about to speak, but first looked to Flanagan, who nodded. “I know the heat’s on, but I don’t think we should release much. She was found dead this morning in her condo. I’d give them the usual bullshit that an autopsy will be performed. Indicate that we’ll be questioning people in the neighborhood, people she worked with, that sort of thing. Beyond that…” Mac shook his head.
“We’re getting hammered here, with the serial killer and then this,” Miller pleaded. “Can’t we go with more, the strangling, time of death, the sex information… any of that?”
“Not yet,” Flanagan answered. “It’s way too early. I don’t want us to get hung based on speculative information we’ll have to retract later. I don’t wanna compromise the investigation.”
“I understand that, but information’ll get out on a case like this,” Miller pushed. “The media pressure’ll be immense. One of their own is dead here. We need to throw them a bone, or we’re gonna get skewered.”
“Damn it, I fuckin’ know that!” yelled Flanagan, who then caught himself, obviously regretting the outburst. After a quiet moment and an exhale, he said more calmly, “I’m sorry. I do appreciate your situation, Sylvia. But we must let the detectives do their work. If we catch the guy, we’ll be fine. If not, I’ll take the heat.” Flanagan then turned to Mac. “This is your case to run. But be smart. You need help, boyo, ask, and keep Peters in the loop. And, son, all media requests go to Sylvia for now.”
“Avoiding the media is fine by me,” Mac replied.
“That goes for you too, Lich,” added Peters, his tone just a bit accusatory.
Mac smiled inside. Lich liked to talk.
“What’d I do?” pleaded Lich with his arms held open.
“Dick,” said Flanagan, “you have a rep for leaking. Not here. Keep your mouth shut.” It was not a request.
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, boys, go to it.”
Mac and Lich left the room.
Once they were gone, Miller, always evaluating the public perception of things asked, “Chief, isn’t McRyan kind of young to be handling this?”
The chief gave Miller a long, severe look before answering. “You know his background. He’s got four good years as a detective. He’ll be fine. From your perspective, he should be someone we want in front of the camera. People will recognize the name.”
“That’s all true, but this isn’t a public service announcement. This is a murder case of a well-known reporter on top of a serial killer. This is very high-profile. McRyan doesn’t look very senior. People might wonder, is all I’m saying.”
“Your concerns are noted,” was Flanagan’s terse reply.
With that, Miller and Peters got up to leave. The chief asked Peters to stay.
With the door closing behind Miller, the chief asked, “She have a point on Mac?”
“No,” Peters responded without hesitation. “Mac’s fine. He’s young, sure, but smart. Lich’s fine too if he’s with it, and I made sure he was properly motivated this morning. Mac doesn’t concern me.”
The chief considered it for a minute “Real police. It’s in his blood.”
“Yes, sir.” Peters replied. “He’s a natural at this. He’s level headed, a natural leader, he wants the responsibility. Plus, he’s smarter than hell.”
Chief Flanagan thought it over. “You know, he reminds me of his old man.”
Peters smiled. “Me too, Chief.”
“Well, screw them all then,” Flanagan said, “We let the real police do their job.”