The Program

by James Swain

“Early this morning, a big Latino man got off the bus wearing white clothes and a floppy white hat. Did you see him?”

  “Oh, yes. He was hard to miss.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Ariel brought his hand up to his chin in thought. “It was about seven o’clock, and I had just arrived. The man in white got off the bus with maybe twenty people. He crossed the street and stood out front for several minutes. That’s all I remember.”

  “Where were you standing when you saw him?”

  “Here by the register.”

  “Come here for a second.”

  Linderman led Ariel to the front of the store, and made him look outside. One of the most interesting interrogation techniques of the last thirty years involved moving a witness, and having them recount what they’d seen from a different vantage point. For reasons no one quite understood, it helped jog their memory.

  “Tell me again what you saw,” Linderman said.

  Ariel stared through the glass. “The man in white came off the bus, and crossed the street. He came to the front of my store and hung around for a while. Wait, I remember something now. He went around the side of the building to use the pay phone, and two girls approached him. He said something to them. His voice was quite harsh.”

  “Do you know these girls?” Linderman asked.

  “Yes. They are prostitutes.”

  “Describe them.”

  “They are both white, rather small, sisters I think. Today they are wearing pink hot pants and halter tops. They hang around on the corner, and men in cars pick them up for blow jobs.”

  Linderman slapped Ariel on the shoulder. “Thank you. Now give me back the dollar you stole from me.”

  Vick stood beneath the shade of the bus stop, talking on her cell phone. She ended her call, and Linderman handed her a soda.

  “Asshole,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean you.”

  “Let me guess. The Broward cops are giving you a hard time.”

  “Yes. I spoke with the head honcho, Sheriff Moody. Moody said he was swamped, and suggest we contact the bus company ourselves. What’s his beef?”

  “He probably doesn’t like being told what to do.”

  Vick drank her soda in silence. She did not like having her authority questioned, especially by another law enforcement officer. He supposed it had to do with her size, and being a woman in a field dominated by insensitive men.

  “The convenience store manager was helpful,” Linderman said. “He told me that a pair of hookers wearing pink hot pants talked to our killer this morning.”

  “I saw those girls a few minutes ago.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  She lowered her soda and pointed south.

  “Let’s go find them,” Linderman said.

  Two blocks away they found the hookers negotiating with a john in a Mercedes. Both girls were horribly thin and missing several of their front teeth. Linderman banged on the roof of the Mercedes and flashed his badge. The john sped away. They led the girls down the street to an alleyway. Neither seemed terribly upset by the interruption.

  “We’ve never been stopped by the FBI before,” one of the hookers said proudly.

  “Maybe we should get out pictures taken,” the other hooker said.

  Linderman didn’t bother to ask them their names: They would only give him fake ones anyway. Instead, he said, “This morning at around seven o’clock you talked to a big Latino man dressed in white. Tell me about him.”

  “You mean Mr. Clean?” the first hooker said. “That guy was in fucking love with himself. Real prima dono.”

  “Prima dona,” the other hooker corrected.

  “Fuck you,” the first hooker laughed.

  Linderman cued Vick with his eyes. He wanted her to jump in, and take over. It was always better for a woman to interrogate another woman than a man.

  “Do you remember what Mr. Clean said to you?” Vick asked.

  “He cursed us,” the first hooker said.

  “Why did he do that?”

  “He was trying to make a phone call. We went up to him to see if he wanted some company, and he told us to go down on each other. Then he started yelling at Ernesto.”

  “Ernesto?” Vick asked.

  “Ernesto hangs around the convenience store. He was lying in the bushes sleeping off a hangover, and he started singing an old Beatle’s song. I Want to Hold your Hand…”

  “It was Please, Please Me,” the other hooker corrected.

  “Fuck you,” the first hooker laughed. “Anyway, Mr. Clean told Ernesto to shut the fuck up or he’d hurt him. Ernesto went back to sleep, and Mr. Clean finished his call.”

  “Did you hear what Mr. Clean said during his call?” Vick asked.

  “Naw.”

  “Have you ever seen Mr. Clean before? Think hard.”

  Both hookers scrunched up their faces. They shook their heads.

  “Thank you. You’ve been a big help,” Vick said.

  “Sure we have,” the first hooker laughed.

  They found Ernesto lying in the bushes outside the convenience store, just like the hookers said. A young man dressed in dark dress slacks and a collared long sleeve blue shirt, the quality of his clothes suggesting he’d only recently fallen from grace.

  Linderman woke Ernesto up, and made him sit with his back against the store window. Vick bought a large coffee, and gave it to him to drink. Drunks were not reliable witnesses, but Linderman decided to give it a shot.

  “This morning, you had an argument with a Latino man trying to make a phone call,” Linderman said. “I need you to tell me what you remember about him.”

  “Is that what the sirens were about?” Ernesto asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He slit a man’s throat and abducted a teenage boy.”

  Ernesto crossed himself and took a swig of coffee. Caffeine took fifteen seconds to hit a person’s blood stream. The effect it had on Ernesto was nothing short of miraculous. His eyes snapped open, and he instantly became alert. “I lost my job selling cars last month, then my wife walked out on me,” he explained. “I’ve been on a bender ever since. I ended up here last night and crashed. When I woke up this morning, something came over me, and I started singing. This Cuban guy making a phone call started yelling at me.”

  “How did you know he was Cuban?” Linderman asked.

  “I’m Cuban. I know another Cubano when I hear one.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He told me he’d break my neck if I didn’t shut up. He looked pretty strong, so I stopped singing, and he went back to his call.”

  “What do you remember about his phone call?”

  Ernesto resumed drinking his coffee and shook his head. The memory was there, Linderman just needed to pull it out. The FBI agent decided to try another approach.

  “Close your eyes, and imagine him making the call,” Linderman said.

  “What good is that going to do?” Ernesto asked.

  “Just try.”

  Ernesto shut his eyes. “All right, I see him.”

  “Imagine him dropping coins in the phone.”

  “Okay.”

  “How many coins did he drop?”

  Ernesto hesitated. “Six or seven.”

  “Coins make different sounds. Was he dropping nickels, dimes, or quarters?”

  Another hesitation. “Quarters. They were heavy.”

  “He’s stopped yelling at you, and is talking to someone. Who?”

  “The crack whores.”

  “I mean on the phone. Who did he call?”

  Ernesto paused, struggling. “A guy. It was definitely a guy.”

  “Did he address him by name?”

  “No. They didn’t talk very long.”

  “What did he say to him?”

  “He said something strange. He said, “I found the right boy for the Program,’ a
nd said goodbye.” Ernesto opened his eyes. “That’s all I remember.”

  Linderman patted him on the shoulder. “That’s great. You’ve been a big help.”

  The pay phone was on the side of the convenience store. Covered in graffiti, it had a silver sticker that identified it as the property of Sky Tell Communications. Linderman wrote down the company’s phone number and returned to the front of the store. Ernesto was on his feet, brushing himself off.

  “Feeling better?” Linderman asked.

  “Much. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Here’s my card. Call me if you remember anything else.”

  Ernesto crossed the street to the bus stop. A bus came, and he boarded. He’d lost everything but his dignity, and hopefully would climb out of the hole he’d dug for himself. Linderman handed Vick the number for Sky Tell Communications. “This is the number for the company that owns the pay phone our killer used. We need to contact them, and get a list of all incoming and outgoing calls made from the phone this morning. While you’re at it, have the CSI techs dust the pay phone for prints and trace DNA, and see what turns up. We may get lucky.”

  “Will do,” Vick said.

  “I’m heading back to the office. Let me know how things turn out.”

  Linderman headed down the sidewalk. The heat had caught up with him, and he was looking forward to basking in his car’s AC.

  “I can catch this guy,” Vick blurted out.

  He turned around on a dime. “What did you say?”

  “I said, I can catch this guy.”

  Vick was like him — by the book. This was not like her.

  “How are you going to do that?” he asked.

  “When I was at the Academy, we studied a serial killer in Gary, Indiana called Spooky Tooth. Spooky Tooth was incredibly vain, and thought he’d never be caught. The FBI set a trap on the Internet, and caught Spooky Tooth in a few days. Killer X is also vain. If I set a similar trap, I’m sure he’ll take the bait.”

  “What are you saying, Rachel? You want to take the case over?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  “Why should I let you do that?”

  “I’m tuned into this guy. I can catch him.”

  “By yourself?”

  “I’ll need the Broward police to help me. And you, of course.”

  Linderman’s first reaction was to say no. Rachel did not have the experience to be taking on a case like this. During her time in Jacksonville, she’d worked the Forgery Unit; upon moving to North Miami to work for him, she’d handled child abductions and helped crack a baby-snatching ring. These were all good experiences, but they weren’t the same as chasing a serial killer. Rachel had never dealt with pure evil, and had no concept of what it might do to her. She didn’t know what it was like to stare into the abyss, and feel the heat scorch her soul. Nor did he think she’d ever woken up in the middle of the night yelling at the top of her lungs. Those were the things that happened to FBI agents who engaged serial killers, and there was no avoiding it.

  But at the same time, he couldn’t deny the burning desire in her eyes. It was a look that told him that this was her time. Rachel was sick of being treated like a kid, and being judged based upon her gender and size. She wanted to prove herself, and this was her opportunity to do that. If denied, she might never get another chance, and would be stuck taking orders for the rest of her career.

  He stared long and hard into her face, just to be sure he was making the right decision. He decided that he was.

  “Let me see what I can do,” he said.

  Chapter 4

  Vick sat in the hallway outside Sheriff Moody’s office. Through the glass, she watched Linderman make his case for her to take over the investigation. If body language was any indication, it was not going well.

  Moody, first name Lester, was a thick-headed man, short on temper and long on intolerance, who should never been made sheriff. Had his predecessor not been caught taking bribes, Moody wouldn’t have gotten the job. The world was funny that way. Morons ran things, while the truly qualified toiled in quiet desperation.

  Moody spun in his fancy leather chair, and studied her through the glass. Then, he spoke to Linderman. Vick couldn’t read minds, but she could read body language. Moody was telling Linderman that she looked too young to be given this much responsibility. Too young, too small, too fragile, too pretty. All the strikes against her seemed to start with the word too. It made Vick mad just thinking about it.

  Linderman said something that made Moody wince. Had Ken threatened him? It sure seemed like it. Ken was deceiving that way. He had the persona of a mild-mannered little league coach, but there was another side to him you dare not cross. He could be tough, yet she’d never regretted leaving Jacksonville to work for him.

  Linderman came out, shutting the door behind him. Vick rose hesitantly.

  “It’s your baby,” he said.

  Her hands clenched into fists and she rose on her toes. Linderman smiled at her with his eyes.

  “Moody wants you to brief his men on how you plan to trap our killer.”

  “I’m game. When?”

  “Right now.”

  “But I’m not ready.”

  “Then get ready. I’ll stall him for fifteen minutes. This is the big leagues, Rachel. Do it.”

  He went into the office and closed the door behind him. Through the window, she saw Moody talking on his intercom, marshaling his troops. Her elation was replaced by a sickening sense of dread. What if she got tongue-tied, or made a fool of herself? What if she forgot what she wanted to say? Her stomach made a low gurgling sound. Hurrying down the hall, she banged open the door to the women’s restroom.

  “Good morning,” Moody said to a conference room packed with plainclothes homicide detectives. “We are fortunate to have the FBI with us today. To my left, Supervisory Special Agent Ken Linderman, head of the Miami CARD unit. Next to him, Special Agent Rachel Vick, also with CARD. Because of the FBI’s experience in handling abduction cases, I’ve asked them to lead up this investigation. Please give them your undivided attention.”

  Moody stepped to one side, and the conference room fell silent. Vick felt the eyes of every detective staring at her. There had to be at least fifty of them packed into the room. She had expected Linderman to kick things off, and was surprised when she felt his elbow nudge her rib cage.

  “Knock “em dead,” he whispered.

  Vick took the floor. In her hands were sheets she’d hurriedly photocopied and stapled together. Seeing DuCharme in the front row, she dropped them in his lap.

  “Detective DuCharme, if you don’t mind, please distribute these.”

  DuCharme went flush. A detective in the back of the room snickered. Vick found the culprit with her eyes.

  “Please save your comments until I’m done,” she said.

  She waited until DuCharme was finished before speaking. Her audience was mostly white males, just like the FBI’s North Miami office. Definitely a boy’s club.

  “There is a serial killer on the loose in Broward County who is preying on violent teenage boys,” Vick began. “In your hands are photographs of his first two victims, Robert Nardelli, age 16, and Barrie Reedy, age 17. Both boys had murdered adults, and were entered into juvenile rehabilitation programs while serving house arrest.

  “Nardelli and Reedy’s bodies surfaced one week after their abductions. Both had been shot in the right side of the temple with a .38 hollow point bullet at close range. Both bodies were discarded in fields not far from major highways. The FBI got interested in the case after Reedy’s body was found. The body was put by a No Dumping sign, which is indicative of the hostility toward society which many serial killers feel.

  “This morning at 7:30 a.m., a third teenager, Wayne Ladd, was abducted in the parking lot of the Harmony juvenile rehabilitation program in Fort Lauderdale. Ladd is 17, and admitted to stabbing his mother’s boyfriend last year. Ladd was in a Harmony van, which the abductor also stole. The
van’s driver got his throat slit.

  “We were fortunate this time. A surveillance camera across the street captured the killing and abduction. Our suspect is a Cuban male between the ages of 35 and 50, about six-foot-two and powerfully built. He’s excessively vain, and likes to spend money on clothes. He may have once driven a van or a school bus for a living.”