THE ST. PAUL CONSPIRACY (McRyan Mystery Series - Excerpt)

Chapter 2: "Your day just got worse."

Chapter Two

“Your day just got worse.”

Many St. Paul residents started their morning at the Grand Brew, a cup of coffee to get the workday started. For Michael McKenzie “Mac” McRyan, a fourth-generation St. Paul detective, it was his way to start the day. Not only did he love the coffee, it was making him a little dough. Two childhood friends owned the Grand Brew. Mac had invested a little money six years before in exchange for a small piece of the action. That “small piece” was turning out to be a nice, and ever-growing, supplement to his detective’s salary.

Mac grabbed his coffee and looked at his watch, 7:30 a.m.—day of paperwork ahead. He had cleared a murder the day before, a stick-up gone awry. It took Mac and his partner a week to put the case together and find the stick-up guy, a nineteen-year-old kid they identified from a surveillance camera. They hauled the kid in, and he went quickly.

Mac’s partner was Richard Lich, or better known within the department, and often to his face, as “Dick Lick.” Mac frequently wondered what in the world Lich’s parents had been thinking. Dick was a veteran cop with money problems; two divorces would do that to a guy. That being said, when motivated, Dick was a good detective. He had an easy manner with people and a quick wit. When he was on his game, Lich was a good complement to Mac’s blunt, if not occasionally abrasive, approach to matters. Problem was, as of late, Lich had checked out. Mac hoped he would snap out of it soon. He could use the help.

Mac jumped into his Explorer, put his coffee in the cup holder just as his cell phone vibrated. He took a look. Just like that a seemingly slow and easy day turned busy. His captain was looking for him.

“McRyan.”

“Peters. St. Albans, between Summit and Grand, cleaning lady found a body.” Mac wrote down the address. “I called Lich. You’ll be there first. Keep me advised and keep your cell on.” Click.

Well, good morning to you too, Mac thought. Captain Marion Peters was a good guy, an old-guard cop that Mac and the rest of the McRyan clan knew well. The gruff manner had more to do with last night than the body on St. Albans. The University Avenue Strangler had struck for the fifth time.

The University Avenue Strangler. Good grief, Mac thought. It wasn’t a cop moniker. That was a media creation and cornball as hell, but that was the media. If you have a serial killer, which they did, the media had to give him a name. A name made for great headlines in the Pioneer Press and Star Tribune.

Four women, now five, had been killed, strangled, sexually assaulted, and dumped into vacant lots in the vicinity of University Avenue. The signature item identifying the killer was a balloon left behind, marking the body like a buoy. The balloon was always the same—a smiley face. “Have a Nice Day.”

Of course, with a serial killer, people, including politicians and especially the media, tend to go into a panic. Mac saw it on the morning news shows, the media in full glory, hyping the murder of another innocent victim for ratings, providing “Team Coverage” and “Exclusives you’ll only see on Channel 12.” City council members had already been on the tube reassuring everyone that the police would find the killer. Undoubtedly, Captain Peters’s gruff mood had something to do with the latest murder, the media swarm, and, Mac suspected, hysterical calls from city politicians demanding something be done. As if it was that easy.

Mac pulled out onto Grand and headed east to St. Albans with a murder to work on. He was thirty-two years old, six foot one, and one hundred ninety pounds. He was ruggedly handsome, with blond hair and icy blue eyes. His short hair formed around a taut face, with a square jaw and a dimple the size of the Grand Canyon in his chin. He had three crisscrossing scars under his chin, the result of stitches from hockey-related cuts. He worked on his wiry, strong body frequently and was proud of the fact he remained in “game” shape, no heavier than his college hockey-playing weight.