“Are things ready to go?” Smith asked Dean.
“The girls are ready. They’ll be out for eighteen to twenty hours, so we have plenty of time.”
“Equipment and materials?”
Dean opened the back door of the van, and Smith inspected the contents.
“As you can see, we’re good to go,” Dean noted confidently.
“Good,” Smith replied. “Let’s bring them up and get going out to the farm then. I want to be sure to finish before the storms roll in.”
Unlike Clearwater, which was right off the highway, Ellsworth could only be reached by a circuitous route east on Interstate 94 into Wisconsin and then south on State Highway 63. Mac and Lich worked their way to the abandoned gas station, where a patrol car and sedan were parked with two cops casually sitting on the hood, one in uniform, one with a tie, both smoking. They’d kept it low-key, no lights or crime tape. There was no reason to wake everyone up and draw a crowd.
Mac pulled up and he and Lich jumped out. A forensics team pulled in behind them and started unloading, pulling on rubber gloves, and assembling their gear. The cop with the tie and a sweat-soaked shirt jumped off the hood.
“My name’s Kleist, chief here in Ellsworth,” he said. Kleist was a short, squat man with a nose far too large for his face. “Haven’t touched a thing,” he reported, wiping his brow with a red handkerchief. “Heck, there hasn’t hardly been anyone passing by since we got here.”
“What did you find when you got here?” Lich asked.
“Not much,” Kleist replied, rubbing a finger hard along the side of his nose. “Phone was on the hook. But,” he waved them away from the phone toward a back exit onto the street, which traversed through a patch of bare ground and dirt, “if you look close enough, there appears to be some fresh tire tracks, I’d say car width, maybe a sedan of some type that those guys,” the chief pointed to the forensics team, “might be able to do something with.”
Mac and Lich peered down to the tracks. They were narrow, fresh and definitely from a car. Lich waved forensics over.
“Let’s get pictures, maybe even a mold,” he ordered. A forensics tech nodded and started snapping images.
“So they’re using vans and cars, eh?” Mac asked.
“Looks like it,” Lich answered. “Just another little wrinkle.”
Mac nodded.
“He didn’t just drive here and stumble onto this place either. He scouted it.” Mac motioned to the station. “This isn’t a bad spot really. The park looks almost abandoned, just a few homes around with little traffic, foot or car. Make a quick call, hang up, leave, and nobody sees a thing.”
They walked back over to Kleist, who’d returned to the hood of his sedan. “Chief, has anyone gone door-knocking?” Lich asked.
The chief thumbed at the other cop.
“He knocked on all the doors before you fellows got here. Only one person was home, and he didn’t see anything, said he was watching the Twins game. I’ve got another one of my men surveying the perimeter of the park and the nearby streets to see if a pedestrian saw anything.”
“I know the answer to this question,” Mac said. “I don’t suppose there’s any surveillance cameras, anything like that around here is there?”
Kleist smiled apologetically and shook his head.
“Nope. Don’t have the budget for it or the need really. Big night for us might be a fight at the bar, a little speeding or drunk driving, a domestic.”
“So if a guy makes a call here,” Mac waved around the area, “and then wanted to leave town, how would he do it?”
Kleist rubbed his nose hard again, and Mac noticed it was redder along the right side. The rubbing must be a frequent nervous tic.
“Oh, a guy would have a couple of ways to go I suppose.” The cop pointed northeast, “He could go back up 63 and get onto 94 and head back the way you boys came.”
“Or?” Mac asked.
“If a feller wanted a more scenic trip, he’d probably go southeast, out along 63 until it finds 10 over yonder, which would take him west to Prescott.” He rubbed the nose again, “or stay south on 63 until he got to Red Wing. In any event, he’d have plenty of…”
“Options,” Mac replied, shaking his head. “We know.”
The chief was called away by one of his men.
Lich didn’t miss a beat. “He said, ‘yonder.’”
“‘Feller,’ too,” Mac added. “I love small-town folks.” He shut up as Kleist headed back.
“I think I got something you boys might be interested in,” he said. An Ellsworth patrol car pulled up with an elderly man in the back seat, along with a golden retriever. The uniform cop got out and let the man and dog out. The dog came right up to Mac.
“Hey there buddy,” Mac said, kneeling down to scratch the pooch behind the ears.
“Explain,” Kleist said to the uniform cop.
“Henry here,” the uniform said, pointing to the old man, dressed in a striped short-sleeved shirt, plaid shorts, and dark socks, “said he was sitting on a park bench across the street about an hour ago, and… well…” The uniform pointed to the old man. “Tell them, Henry.”
“I was sitting on the bench over there.” The old man pointed kitty-corner from the gas station to an old bench with “Ellsworth Lions Club” painted on it in fading letters. “I was taking a rest with Reggie here.” The old man rubbed the dog’s head. “Anyways, I saw this blue sedan pull into that old gas station and park by the pay phone.”
“When was this?”
Henry pulled out a tarnished gold pocket watch and flipped the top open.
“Oh 7:30, 7:40 or so. Sometime around then.” Mac and Lich exchanged a look.
“What kind of car, Henry?” Mac asked.
“Chevy I think, one of them new ones, what do they call them, Impalas? I’ve never owned one myself; I’m a Ford man…”
“See a license plate number?” Mac interrupted.
“I know the letters because they were odd. They spelled ‘cat,’ I think.”
“Cat? You mean the letters were C-A-T?”
“That’s right,” the old man replied, his glasses sliding down his nose as he nodded. “And it was a Minnesota plate, had the blue color and them pine trees.”
“I’m going to call it in,” Lich said, pulling out his cell phone. Mac continued.
“How about the driver, you get a look at him?”
“Not a good one,” the old man said.
“Black or white? Blonde hair or dark hair? McRyan pressed. “Anything like that?”
“White, I think,” the old man answered. “I think he had a baseball cap on, but other than that, I didn’t really notice anything.”
“And you were sitting on the park bench across the street?”
“That’s right young man, right over there. We come through here just about every night at this time.”
“Let’s walk over there, okay? You can bring Reggie along.”
“Okey dokey,” Henry replied and with his slow gait he followed Mac across the street and away from the abandoned gas station. At the bench, Mac stopped.
“Henry, right?”
The old man nodded, “Henry Finkey.”
“My name’s McRyan, I’m a detective from St. Paul.”
“You’re a Minnesota boy, eh?” Henry replied, mischief in his voice. “I can’t stand them Vikings. You a Vikings fan?”
“I am Henry, I am. They’re going to kick the Pack’s tail this year,” Mac replied, sitting down next to the old man and petting Reggie’s snout.
“We’ll see about that,” Henry answered. “So what’s this all about?”
“I can’t really tell you why this is important, or least not yet sir,” Mac answered.
“Does this have something to do with those girls being kidnapped? I figure that must be it. No other reason for a St. Paul cop to be here in little ol’ Ellsworth.”
Mac remained neutral.
“Like I said, I can’t say. What I need though is for you to walk me through it again, what you saw. Take a minute if you need, close your eyes, whatever, but I need to know everything.
Henry set himself on the park bench, leaned back, and thought for a minute.
“I was out taking my nightly walk with Reggie. We go for a good hour or two walk every night in the summer.”