The Program

by James Swain

  But that wasn’t the best part. Far from it. The best part was that he was on a party line, and the FBI was hearing the mayhem as well, and probably recording it. Linderman’s clever sting had blown up in his face.

  That will teach you to steal my playing cards, he thought.

  He heard sirens in the background. Someone should have noticed the payphone dangling off the hook by now, and had the foresight to kill the connection. But that hadn’t happened. He guessed that Mr. Clean had inflicted some serious injuries, and no one was paying attention to the little things.

  He wanted them all to die. He’d counted five voices — four whom were FBI agents, the fifth the poor rube who’d gotten stuck holding the payphone — and he envisioned them all gasping their last breath, their eyelids flickering.

  Lights out, sayonara, cheerio, see you in the funny papers.

  Kill them all, said the voice in his head.

  He heard two new voices in the background. A pair of medics were trying to save the rube. Crutch listened hard to their conversation.

  “He’s lost too much blood ,” one of the medics said.

  “Come on, pal, don’t give up,” the other medic said.

  “Shit. He’s going down.”

  The medics gave it their best shot. Finally they stopped talking and a respectful silence followed. The rube was officially dead.

  Crutch shook his head ruefully. It would have been much nicer if one of the FBI agents had died, but the rube’s dying would have its benefits. The FBI had arrested an innocent man, then gotten him killed. The newspapers and TV news programs would have a field day with this. It was the kind of fuck-up they lived for.

  His thoughts shifted to the FBI agents who’d participated in the sting, both here in Jacksonville, and down in Fort Lauderdale. They were probably mourning the rube’s death right about now. Crutch had never experienced feelings for strangers, but he recognized it in others. Displays of caring were how people coped with their own mortality and insecurities. It was weakness, laid out for all to see. He told himself that these FBI agents were weak, even though he’d never met them.

  He went to the toilet and dropped his pants. He took a long piss while holding the cell phone above the bowl. He hoped they were all listening.

  Part II

  Chapter 27

  Early the next morning, Linderman checked out of his motel in the town of Starke, and walked to a restaurant in town. There, he began to write a chronology of the events leading up to the botched sting.

  He sat in a booth by himself, drinking coffee as he wrote in a spiral bound notebook. Soon the restaurant filled up with workers getting off their shift at the prison. Many wore dreamy looks, their eyes half-shut from exhaustion. The restaurant catered to prison people, and had an electric chair sitting in the back behind a velvet rope. The chair, he’d learned from the hostess, was a spare from the prison, and had never been used.

  A waitress refilled his cup. He sipped and continued to write. He had made a mistake with his handling of the sting, and hoped that it didn’t come back to haunt him. He had not used a scribe to record things as they occurred. Scribes were essential to keeping facts straight, and for establishing time lines. An innocent man had died last night, and there would be an internal review by the bureau to find out why. He needed to get his story straight while it was still fresh in his mind. Otherwise, there would be hell to pay down the road.

  Wood entered the restaurant and slipped into the booth. He wore yesterday’s clothes, his rolled up sleeves exposing the array of tattoos he’d gotten while infiltrating the motorcycle gangs. Photos of Wood from that era showed a guy with long hair, a scraggily beard, and a crazy grin. The name Little Jesus had fit him just right.

  “You sleep?” Wood asked.

  “Couple of hours. How about you?”

  “The same. I was glued to the Internet.”

  “How bad is the fallout?”

  “CNN picked up the story around three a.m. Then the rest of them joined in. They’re making us look like total morons.”

  “Did you expect anything less?”

  “I guess not. Who the hell is Detective DuCharme?”

  Linderman put his pencil down. “A useless homicide detective with the Broward Sheriff’s Department. What is he saying?”

  “I turned on the TV before I left the house. DuCharme was being interviewed on one of the early morning news shows. He’s claiming that Vick screwed the investigation up from the start. He said Vick was infatuated with the kidnaping victim, and let her feelings cloud her judgement. You and I both know that’s complete bullshit, but the news shows are loving it. FBI agent falls for teen victim.”

  “Is that the angle they’re using?”

  “Afraid so.”

  A waitress took Wood’s order. Coffee and toast. She left, and Linderman flipped the notebook around and slid it across the table. “I need you to take a look at this, and tell me if I’ve left anything out.”

  Wood did not look down at the notes. Instead, he continued to gaze at Linderman. He had an everyman’s face, which had made him a perfect undercover operative back in the day. What stood out were his eyes. Dark as coal, their gaze was unflinching.

  “I’ve got more bad news,” Wood said.

  Linderman drew back in his seat.

  “We can’t go after Crutch,” Wood said.

  Linderman slammed his fist on the table. The reaction drew an interested stare from a man eating breakfast at the next table. Linderman snapped his head at the offending party, and the man went back to his scrambled eggs and sausage.

  “Why not?” Linderman asked.

  “You’re aware that there was an atmospheric disturbance last night which caused the satellite to drop the volume on the transmission.”

  “Yes. It was what tipped Crutch off to the sting.”

  “It also distorted the sound quality of the voices. You can’t identify Crutch’s voice on the tape. He sounds like an alien.”

  “But we know it was him,” Linderman said.

  “Yes, we do, but we can’t prove it was him.”

  “Have you talked this over with legal?”

  “I called our lawyer on the way here, and discussed everything with him. The burden of proof is clearly on the government’s shoulders when it comes to eavesdropping cases. We can’t prove Crutch was talking to Mr. Clean last night. Hell, we can’t prove that he was talking to anyone.”

  Wood’s toast was served burned. He slathered strawberry jelly onto it, and began to eat. Soon the table was covered in tiny pieces of ash. It was a perfect metaphor for what had happened. Their case against Crutch had gone up in flames.

  “Have you talked to Rachel?” Wood asked.

  “I called her last night to see how she was doing,” Linderman replied. “She sounded shell-shocked. I told her to hang tough.”

  “Do you think she’ll survive this?”

  “She’ll survive.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I’m going to take the heat on this one. I set up the sting, and I sent her into that hornet’s nest. The blame falls squarely on my shoulders for what happened.”

  Wood said nothing. They’d known each other a long time, and followed the same code of ethics. They did not blame others when things broke bad. They blamed themselves. “I feel responsible in another way,” Linderman went on. “This was Rachel’s first attempt to catch a serial killer. She’s always impressed me as being smart and competent. But she’s still young, and even though I had some misgivings, I brought her up too soon.”

  They fell silent. The waitress brought their check, which Linderman settled.

  “Rachel lied about her age when she signed up,” Wood said.

  Linderman was stunned. “How did you find that out?”

  “It popped up during a background check. She was born in “83 but put “81 on her application. She’s been doing it her whole life.”

  Linderman glanced at the front door of the restaur
ant. An elderly couple waiting for the table were shooting him hostile stares. Ignoring them, he said, “I want to hear about this.”

  “Rachel lied about her age when applying for a learner’s permit to drive a car when she was thirteen,” Wood said. “When she was fifteen, she lied on a job application to work in a department store.”

  “Is her lying pathological?”

  “I don’t think so. I got to know Rachel when she worked in my office. Her father was a strict Baptist minister, and was abusive. Rachel wanted to get out of that house as fast as she could. So she lied about her age. One Thanksgiving she came over to the house for dinner. My wife asked her what it was like growing up in a Baptist family. Rachel said that her father had frowned upon pre-marital sex because it might lead to dancing. I’d thought she was making a joke. She wasn’t joking.”

  “How long have you known this?” Linderman asked.

  “I found out a few months ago. I had her change her birth date on her application so it wouldn’t haunt her later on.”

  “I wish you’d picked up the phone and called me. It explains a lot of things.”

  “It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. The bureau signed up a lot of new recruits after 9/11 that they didn’t vet as thoroughly as they should have. Rachel slipped through the cracks.”

  Linderman slid out of the booth and headed for the door.

  “You still should have called me,” he said.

  Linderman’s rental was baking in the sun behind his motel. He climbed behind the wheel and within seconds was dripping with perspiration. His body refused to adjust to the Florida heat, and he longed for the day that he and Muriel could move back to Virginia.

  He called Southwest Airlines and made a reservation on a flight to Fort Lauderdale that afternoon. He was not going to let Vick take the fall for this. She had good instincts and one day would make a fine supervisor. He would take the hit and retire if he had to. He’d put in twenty-five years and would earn a full pension. It was not the swan song he’d envisioned, but life was like that sometimes. As he hung up, another call came in.

  “This is Linderman.”

  “Warden Jenkins here,” the caller said.

  “Hello, warden. How are you this morning?”

  “Fair to middling. Are you still in town?”

  “Yes. I was just heading to the airport to catch a flight.”

  “I have something you need to see. One of the guards just delivered a note to me. It’s from Crutch, and it’s addressed to you.”

  “What does it say?”

  “I don’t know. Crutch glued it shut on all four corners. I don’t know how he did that, because the inmates aren’t allowed to have adhesive in their cells.”

  Or cell phones, Linderman nearly said, but stifled the remark. “Would you mind opening the letter, and reading it to me?”

  “By all means.”

  There was a short silence as Jenkins put down the phone. He came back on, and cleared his throat. “Here we go. Dear Special Agent Linderman: Although we have never met, I feel like I know you. I’m aware you searched my cell yesterday, and I also know why you came here. You are capable of making my life miserable, while I have the ability to help you, and your cause. Perhaps we should put down our swords, smoke a peace pipe, and talk this over. I am willing to try that approach, but as my mother used to say, it takes two to tango. If you are willing to meet with me, I must put forth one stipulation. Our talk must be in private, with no guards or other employees of the prison present. Trust me when I say you will not be disappointed in what I have to tell you. Sincerely, Crutch. God almighty, can you believe the nerve of this son-of-a-bitch?”

  Linderman gazed through his windshield at the parking lot. The heat rising off the concrete made the world look twisted and out of focus. He had talked to serial killers before, and come away each time feeling like a small nick had been cut in his heart. He would lose something talking to Crutch, but had no other choice if he wanted to save Wayne Ladd.

  “How soon can you set this up?” he asked.

  “You’re going to do it?” Jenkins asked, sounding shocked.

  “I don’t have any other choice. Our investigation has hit a brick wall.”

  “Didn’t you tape Crutch’s conversation last night? He incriminated himself left and right.”

  “The tape is worthless. The audio was bad.” Linderman paused, seeing menacing shapes in the shadows of his motel that had not been there before. He was exhausted, and told himself his mind playing tricks on him. “ I want to do this right now.”

  “There will have to be a guard present,” Jenkins said. “We don’t allow one-on-one meetings with inmates under any circumstances. It’s too damn risky.”

  “Make an exception.”

  “But…”

  “Just set it up. Crutch and me.”

  “You’re sure you know what you’re doing.”

  “Positive. I’ll be there soon.”

  Linderman drove to the prison like there was no tomorrow.

  Chapter 28

  Warden Jenkins was still griping when Linderman entered his office and dropped into the chair across from his desk. Jenkins saw something in the FBI agent’s face that told him to stop complaining, so he did, his lips slapping shut.

  “Is everything ready?” Linderman asked.

  “Crutch is being moved from his cellblock to the prison chapel,” Jenkins said. “Once I get a call from the guards that he’s there, I’ll walk you over.”

  “Why the chapel?”

  “Crutch requested it. He goes to mass every week. I’m guessing Crutch thinks that we don’t have the chapel bugged or any hidden surveillance cameras inside.”

  “Do you?”

  Jenkins shook his head.

  “Then he’s probably not guessing,” Linderman said. “He probably checked the chapel for bugs and knows that it’s safe. He might even have set up shop there, knowing it’s off-limits to your snooping. He could have weapons hidden inside.”

  “Jesus, I never thought of that. What do you want to do?”

  “Does your chaplain have an office?”

  “He has a study. It’s located next to the chapel in the rear of the building.”

  “We’ll do it there. Have your guards remove all sharp objects, including pens, pencils, paper clips, or anything with a sharp edge. Check the furniture to make sure none of the pieces can be screwed off, and used as weapons. Once the chaplain’s study is clear, put Crutch in there.”

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  “A boy’s life is at stake. I don’t have any choice.”

  Jenkins got on the phone and made the necessary preparations. Finished, he hung up, and tried to engage Linderman in conversation. When his guest did not respond, he steepled his hands in front of his face, and let a long minute pass in silence.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, you look like hell,” Jenkins said.

  Linderman did not respond. He was running on fumes, and needed to save his energy for the prince of darkness. Confronting evil was like warfare, and required every ounce of a person’s resolve.

  The phone on Jenkins’ desk lit up. Linderman knew what the call was about before Jenkins picked up the line.

  Crutch sat in a folding chair with a pair of guards to either side. One guard was chewing bubble gum, the other had recently eaten onions.

  Kill them, said the voice inside his head.

  The chaplain’s study had been stripped clean of anything that might be used as a weapon; even the crucifixes on the walls were gone, their images still darkening the plaster. The desk was clean, as were the side tables and coffee cart. A print of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus hung behind the desk, a reproduction from the Basilica of the Nativity, her gaze fixed squarely on the back of Crutch’s head.

  The door opened, and Warden Jenkins and Special Agent Ken Linderman entered the study. Crutch knew the second man was Linderman by the crease in his suit and the knot in his tie. His att
ention to detail was extraordinary. A classic profiler.

  One of the guards spoke.

  “He’s clean, warden,” the guard said. “We strip-searched him before he left his cell, then searched him again when we got here.”

  “Did he touch anything once you brought him into the room?” Linderman asked.

  The guard doing the talking hesitated and glanced at his partner. His indecision was his answer.

  “Search him again,” Linderman said.