Free The St. Paul Conspiracy by Roger Stelljes Page A

cops were tending bar, pouring drinks and trading stories with the crowd, which, from the looks of it, was entirely made up of cops. The room was abuzz. There was plenty to talk about with the Daniels murder and the fifth serial killing.
    Most nights, when Mac walked in, he went in like everyone else, got a few, “Hi” and “How’re ya doings” as he worked his way through the crowd of cops. Tonight was a little different. He got looks, stares, and nods. He was working a big case, one people all around town were talking about. Undoubtedly, the boys would be looking to grill him for the facts on the case, his list of suspects, and, for those cops not involved with the serial killer, queries if he needed any help.
    He made his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a Guinness. He preferred darker beers, especially if he was only going to have a couple before going home. That was his plan, too. Mac took a long swig, saw a couple bar stools open up and grabbed one.
    “Mac, boy, mind if I grab a seat?”
    Mac turned to find an old family friend giving him a tired smile. Pat Riley was having one of his specials, a Dewers on the rocks. Mac suspected it wasn’t his first, and he saw in Pat what he himself might look like in a month if he didn’t clear the Daniels murder.
    Riles was heading the detail on the serial killer. After seven weeks of investigation, he looked worn down, tired and tonight, properly drunk. The stress could be read all over his large, round face. A big man, Riles was sixthree, with a developing pot belly and a large mane of black hair. His face was jowly, and his five o’clock shadow made him look Nixonian. His bushy hair was disheveled, his tie loosened, and his face pale except the dark circles around his eyes. It had been a long couple of months for him.
    Any cop in Pat’s position wanted more than anything to find the bastard who was killing these women. You lived with it twenty-four/seven. It consumed you, especially the longer it went on. Mac remembered his dad telling him that when he first start working a case such as Pat’s, there was a certain excitement. But, if it went unsolved, the excitement went by the wayside, replaced by stress and pressure. These mounted with time.
    Usually, the pressure started with the media. With a serial killer, the media pressure was constant, with daily stories and special reports. And now it was November 1st, a sweeps month for television. Investigative reports would be coming. The media pressure in turn created political pressure. Media stories scared politicians from the mayor down to members of the city council. Mac’s dad, Uncle Shamus, the chief and Captain Peters all said at one time or another: a politician would never, ever, find a better job. They would do whatever they could to keep it, too. Consequently, they all had an innate, almost instinctive ability to apply pressure on the police, the fire department—whomever—to provide cover for themselves.
    Naturally, when the media and the politicos got together, the pressure built on the detectives involved. Such was the case with Pat. The serial killer case was getting to him. Mac could see it. He was drinking more, sleeping less and looking beaten down. No wonder. The case itself brought tremendous stress and pressure. Add media and political attention, and it was understandable why one would be driven to drink.
    “Welcome to my world,” Pat said wearily.
    “It has been an eventful day,” Mac agreed.
    “Careful what you wish for, boyo. If your thing goes on like mine, it’ll wear on you.”
    “You look beat.”
    “Shit, this case is kicking my ass.” Riles replied, taking a sip of the Dewers. “You watch, it’ll do the same to you.”
    Mac gave a little chuckle, “It’s only been one day, Pat. It better not get to me yet, or I’m not long for this line of work.” Mac thought he might mention something more about Pat’s drinking, but quickly put it out of his mind. It wasn’t