The Program

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 restaurant. 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 attention 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.

Crutch got out of his chair and stood spread eagle against the desk, playing the good inmate. The guard who hadn’t spoken patted Crutch down and turned his pants pockets inside out, finding nothing. Linderman watched the process carefully.

“Good enough,” the FBI agent said. “You gentleman can go. Thank you.”

The guards shuffled out of the study. Jenkins said, “We’ll be in the hall if you need us,” and followed them, shutting the door behind him.

Crutch returned to his chair, and sat with his hands on his knees. He knew he was being scrutinized, but chose not to stare back, his eyes focused on Linderman’s suit. It was classic Brooks Brothers, the pants having been recut to account for his thin waist, the jacket tailored to accommodate his sidearm. Crutch was fond of nice clothes, and longed for the day he’d again wear pretty things.

“Look at me,” the FBI agent said sharply.

Crutch smiled to himself. Linderman wanted to look at his face and stare into his eyes, the eyes being a window into a person’s soul. He obliged him.

“Happy now?” Crutch asked.

Linderman crossed his arms and glared at him. Like so many serial killers, Crutch looked incomplete, as if the Creator had put down the paint brush during his portrait, and left him without several important ingredients. This was the person Crutch saw whenever he looked at himself in the mirror. A half-finished man.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Crutch said.

“Start talking.”

“Let me tell you what I want. If you think it’s feasible, I will tell you what I’ll give you in return. Sound promising?”

The FBI agent nodded stiffly.

“A man of few words. How refreshing. All right, here’s my request. I want you to leave me alone. No more searching my cell, or bugging my telephone conversations, or interfering with my day-to-day existence. Go back to South Florida, and stay out of my life. I know what you are, and I want you gone.”

“And what is that?”

“A killer, just like me.”

Anger danced across the FBI agent’s eyes like lightening in a window.

“I don’t belong to your sick little club,” Linderman snapped.

“Oh, yes, you do,” Crutch shot back. “I read about it on the Internet. You and your men killed Simon Skell’s gang in cold blood. You had shotguns, and Skell’s boys had handguns. You slaughtered them in that house. I went to the FBI’s web site, and looked at the dead men’s photographs. I can look at a dead person, and tell you what the person who killed him was thinking when they took their life. You had revenge on your mind. You thought Skell’s gang abducted your precious daughter, so you butchered them, and then you killed Skell. The FBI should have called you on the carpet, only the bureau doesn’t like to punish it’s stars, so they left you alone.”

“I didn’t kill Skell,” Linderman said.

“Really? The reports I read said you were there.”

“Jack Carpenter killed Skell.”

“You knew what Carpenter would do to Skell. It was no different than you killing him yourself.”

“What does any of that have to do with you?”

Linderman was no longer in command of the conversation, and on the defensive. Crutch went for the kill. “It has everything to do with me. You’re a man on a mission who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants, including breaking laws. You’ll ruin your career just to fuck me. I recognize that trait in you, because I have it myself. I want you out of my life.”

“And in return, you’ll hand over Mr. Clean,” Linderman said.

The words caught Crutch by surprise. He would never give up Mr. Clean, or for that matter, any other serial killer he’d been in contact with.

“Who?” Crutch asked.

“Mr. Clean, the serial killer you’re talking to in Fort Lauderdale.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Don’t play that game with me. I saw the index cards in your cell. You figured out who Mr. Clean is, and made contact with him. You’ve got some sick deal with him that involves abducting violent teenage boys. Mr. Clean called you right before he abducted Wayne Ladd two days ago. You’re in cahoots with him.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Crutch said.

“You’re lying,” the FBI agent said, his voice rising. “You’ve been using the computers in the records department to go onto the Internet, and download information about killing and torture and all sorts of sick stuff. You’ve been doing research, putting together a special program for serial killers, haven’t you?”

Crutch rocked back in his chair. The momentum had shifted. Linderman was now on the attack, and doing his best to break him down.

Kill him, said the voice inside his head.

Crutch considered it. Crutch was stronger than people realized, his body toned from hundreds of push-ups he did every day in the privacy of his cell. But Linderman was also fit, and was a killer.

An even match, Crutch thought. Those were never good.

“You have a very active imagination,” Crutch replied.

Linderman took a step forward, halving the distance between them. The gesture was not lost on Crutch. The FBI agent was not afraid of him.

“Mr. Clean screwed up,” Linderman said. “A witness overheard his conversation with you. Mr. Clean said, “I found a boy for The Program.’ I didn’t understand what that meant until I came up here. You’ve written something that will turn boys into monsters, and Mr. Clean is helping you try it out. The first two teenagers he abducted didn’t work out, so he killed them. I guess you’re hoping the third boy is the charm.”

Linderman was smarter than he’d thought. He’d taken all the pieces of the puzzle, and put them together without making a single mistake. He even knew about The Program.

Kill him, said the voice.

Crutch reined in the murderous impulse. He had one last card hidden up his sleeve. He could still save himself if he played that card right.

“I will not turn over Mr. Clean, or for that matter, anyone else,” Crutch said. “But I will give you something much more valuable, if you leave me alone.”

“What’s that?” Linderman replied.

“Your daughter.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I never kid.”

“Do you have any idea how many prisoners in Florida have reached out to me, and offered information about Danni? Dozens. I didn’t cut any deals with them, and I won’t cut any deals with you. This conversation is over.”

Linderman moved for the door, never taking his eyes off Crutch.

“But this information is different,” Crutch said.

“Right,” he said.

“Please listen to what I have to say.”

Linderman reached for the door, then stopped. Crutch smiled cruelly. He had the FBI agent right where he wanted him. He slapped his hands on his thighs like someone keeping time at a square dance, his eyes dancing in his head.

“Your daughter is still alive,” Crutch said.

Chapter 29

The words hit Linderman hard.

Long ago, he had accepted that Danni was probably dead. As an FBI agent, he knew the odds of her being alive were slim at best. More than likely, she’d been killed within a few hours of being abducted, her body stashed in some hidden place that would elude the police and other searchers for years to come.

But deep down he’d held out hope that Danni was still alive. It was the hope that every parent of a missing child kept burning in their hearts. Somehow, their son or daughter had managed to beat the odds, and not be killed by their abductor.

And now Crutch was telling him that his prayers had been answered, and Danni had not perished. It was not the messenger he would have wanted, but he was not going to turn it away. He released his hand from the door knob.

“Keep talking,” Linderman said.

“Step back into the room if you want to hear more,” Crutch said.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

Of course Linderman wanted to know. It was the only thing on this earth that he truly cared about. But he would not take orders from a monster. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and waited.

“I’m listening,” Linderman said.

“I’m not lying, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Crutch said.

“It would be a stupid lie to tell.”

“Well put. Before I continue, I need to know if we have a deal or not.”

“I need to hear more.”

“Very well. To be honest, it was why I thought you came to the prison. I knew Simon Skell very well.”

“And Skell told you about Danni.”

“Skell talked about all his victims. He was a braggart. Skell approached your daughter in the parking lot of her college dormitory. He had a plaster cast on his arm – Ted Bundy’s old trick to draw sympathy – and claimed he was lost. Your daughter had been out for a morning run, and was out of breath. She turned to show him how to find the place he was looking for, and Skell banged her over the head with his cast, and threw her into the trunk of his car. It was early morning; no one saw a thing. Skell said that your daughter dropped her keys, and he regretted not picking them up.”

Linderman let out a deep breath. Crutch was playing him like a fiddle. Danni’s keys had been found by the Miami police in the parking area of her dorm. It was one of several pieces of information regarding her disappearance which had never been released to the public.

“Keep talking,” Linderman said.

“Your daughter was Skell’s slave for several weeks. She somehow managed to weasel her way into Skell’s heart. Perhaps being the daughter of a famous FBI agent gave her training to deal with such a situation – yes?”

Linderman lowered his arms, his hands clenched into fists.

“Skell also told me that your daughter was a wonderful cook,” Crutch said. “Her baked goods were particularly delicious.”

Linderman found himself nodding. Danni had learned to cook from his wife, and had once considered going to culinary school and making it her profession.

“Go on,” he said.

“Skell admired your daughter’s moxie, and decided not to kill her. He told me she was the only victim he’d spared.”

“What did he do with her?”

“He found a home for her. One where she could put her talents to use.”

“Skell gave my daughter away?”

“He sold her. There are people in the world who desire slaves. Skell found one of these people in Florida, and worked out a deal. The buyer was a rich foreigner who wanted a pretty young woman to cook and clean for him. Skell even told Danni the terms.”

“What terms?”

“You know, the arrangement. If Danni did certain things for her new owner, he would take care of her. If not, she would perish.”

“Did my daughter agree to these terms?”

“According to Skell, yes.”

“And you know who this person is.”

“Yes, I do.”

It was the kind of thing that Linderman could see his daughter doing. He decided that Crutch was telling him the truth.

“Tell me how you want to work this,” Linderman said.

“Is that a yes?”

“I want to hear the details first.”

“The devil is in the details, yes?”

“Don’t push it.”

Crutch dropped his voice to a confessional whisper. “This is what I want from you. First, you must leave me alone. No more intrusions into my world or surprise visits to the prison. You will not write a report about what I did, or talk about what happened here to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, I no longer exist. Understood?”

“Keep talking.”

“Second, you will not come to my parole hearing next year, and say unpleasant things about me. I have done my time, and want to be released.”

“Is that it?”

“There’s more. You will also contact that rotten prick Robert Kessler, and instruct him to stay away from the parole hearing as well.”

“What about Warden Jenkins? I can’t control what he says.”

“Jenkins won’t come to the hearing on his own. He’s more concerned about keeping his cushy job than what happens to me. Do you think he wants me telling the parole board that there were drug dealers inside Starke conducting business over cell phones? My bases are covered with Jenkins. It’s the FBI that I’m worried about.”

“When do I get the name?” Linderman asked.

“The moment I’m paroled, I will pick up the phone and call you, and tell you the name of the rich foreigner who’s keeping your precious daughter. Your search will be over. You will be free, just like I’ll be free. Now, do we have a deal?”

Linderman regarded Crutch with an almost clinical detachment. This was evil in its purest form, the apple being offered filled with poisonous worms. He would be selling his soul in order to find out what had happened to the person he loved. And, he’d be betraying the bureau and all the people he’d worked with.

The price was too much. He shook his head.

“No?” Crutch acted astonished.

“Never,” Linderman said.

“But this is Danni…”

“I’ll find her some other way. Thanks for the tips.”

Crutch went stiff in his chair. Linderman sensed that he was about to be attacked. Walking backward, he reached behind his back and grabbed the door knob, not taking his eyes off Crutch for a second. The serial killer shot him a murderous look.

“You’ll let your daughter suffer?” Crutch asked.

“Shut up,” Linderman said.

“I failed to mention something about her arrangement. Perhaps this will change your mind. During the day, Danni cooks and cleans. At night, she becomes a fuck-doll.”

“A what?”

“A sex slave. You know what that is, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Your daughter fucked Skell, and she is also fucking this rich foreigner. You don’t want that to keep going on, do you?”

It was Linderman’s worst nightmare. Six years of rage boiled to the surface, and he felt the walls of the chaplain’s study close around him, the room’s furniture shifting as if on quicksand. He fixed his gaze on the painting of the Virgin Mary, hoping her divine grace would give him ballast. Her patient smile had turned into a hideous grin.

The next thing he knew, his hands were around Crutch’s throat, squeezing so hard that the inmate’s eyeballs popped out of his head like a cartoon character. Lifting Crutch out of his chair, he snapped his head against the desk, his blood flying across the room in a glorious splash of red. He did not stop until the corpse was mangled beyond recognition.

“Deal, or no deal?” Crutch asked.

Linderman blinked. Crutch was back in his chair, looking no worse for wear. Nothing had happened. His mind was playing tricks on him like it had earlier in the day. His killing Crutch had been an hallucination.

Only Linderman knew that this time was different. He had seen the blackness that had invaded his soul, and would allow him to kill a man with his bare hands.

He’d fallen into the abyss.

Chapter 30

Grabbing the knob, Linderman jerked the door open.

“Get this son-of-a-bitch out of here,” he said.

The pair of guards rushed into the study. Within seconds, they had Crutch out of his chair, and were hustling him out the door. Linderman avoided making eye contact with Crutch as he flew past.

“Skell told me how lovely her snatch was,” Crutch called over his shoulder.

A guard smacked Crutch in the back of the head.

“Shut your filthy mouth,” the guard warned.

Jenkins was waiting in the hall with a concerned look on his face. Linderman left the chapel with the warden glued to his side. He was trying to make sense of what had happened. The images of him killing Crutch had been too real.

“What did he want?” Jenkins asked.

“He tried to blackmail me,” Linderman said.

“With what?”

“My daughter was abducted six years ago by Simon Skell. Crutch knows what happened to her. He offered to give me the information at a later date if I backed off.”

“I didn’t know that about your daughter. I’m sorry. What did you tell him?”

Linderman stopped and gave Jenkins a look that left no doubt in the warden’s mind what his response had been.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Jenkins said.

They walked to the visitor’s parking lot. The sun was blinding, and Linderman squinted to find his rental among the vast landscape of cars.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to nail the bastard,” Linderman said.

“How? You said he hadn’t broken any laws.”

“There are twenty-four murders that the FBI believes Crutch is responsible for. I should be able to link at least one of them to him. Once I do, I’ll come back here, and put the screws to him. That should make him talk.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Jenkins asked.

The offer was sincere. Linderman didn’t believe what Crutch had said about Jenkins not having a spine. If anything, Jenkins had impressed him as someone who followed the law, no matter where it took him.

“Yes, there is. You can make Crutch’s life living hell. If he starts feeling the pressure, he might start talking.”

“How would you suggest I do that?” Jenkins asked.

“Ostracize him. Let the other inmates know what kind of animal he is. That sort of thing.”

“I can do that,” Jenkins said.

They shook hands. Linderman had a feeling he’d be seeing Jenkins soon.

Linderman drove into the town of Starke. He turned on the radio, and listened to country music while replaying what had happened in the chaplain’s study.

He hadn’t blacked out or fainted. He’d had an episode in which his imagination had eclipsed the rational part of his brain. His fantasy of killing Crutch had seemed real because to his brain it was real.

Murderous fantasies were a topic that he was familiar with. They were what drove serial killers to seek out their victims, and snuff out their lives. They started when a serial killer was young, and grew as the killer’s anger with society grew. At some point during the process, the fantasy became more real than reality.

He thought of Ed Kemper, a highly intelligent giant who’d killed his grandparents when he was fourteen, then killed eight more women after being released from prison. He’d once interviewed Kemper in a room filled with guards, knowing Kemper’s stated desire to screw the head off an FBI agent, and leave it on a table.

“Tell me about your fantasies,” he’d said.

“I sorry to sound so cold about this,” Kemper had apologized, “but what I needed to have was a particular experience with a person, and to possess them in a way that I wanted to. I had to evict them from their human bodies.”

“Could the fantasy have worked without evicting them?” he’d asked.

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Kemper had stated.

Linderman thought back to his own murderous fantasy. Strangling Crutch had been the starting point, not the end. He’d needed to evict Crutch from his body before his fantasy of smashing his head against the desk could begin. It disturbed him to think that his fantasy had matched someone like Kemper.

Linderman knew what he had to do. Check himself into a hospital and get help. He was a danger to himself and the people around him. His mind was poisoned.

Only going into a hospital would mean quitting the case, and he wasn’t going to do that. People were depending on him, and he could not let them down. He owed it to them, and to himself, to see the case through.

He made a promise to himself. He would seek medical treatment once the investigation was finished. By staying focused on his work, he could get through this. His dedication to his job had saved him from going crazy during the past six years, and it would save him now.

Soon he was sitting in the restaurant where he’d eaten breakfast. His table was near the electric chair behind the velvet cord. A little boy was getting his picture taken in the chair, his father snapping endless photos. It seemed ghoulish, and he reminded himself that the chair was a spare from the prison, and had never been used.

A big-haired waitress swooped down on his table. He let himself be talked into the lunch special. When she was gone, he booted up his laptop, and opened a folder containing Crutch’s index cards. He found the card devoted to Killer X, and studied it.

He had to give Crutch credit. He’d figured out who Killer X was by studying his crimes, besting the profilers at Quantico. He needed to fix that. If Crutch could figure out the puzzle, so could he.

He started by copying what Crutch had written on a separate sheet of paper. It was an unusual exercise, designed to make the writer feel the words as they came off the pen. He wrote slowly, pausing to stare after each line.

Name: Killer X

Age:40-50

Characteristics:Handsome, soft-spoken, a person women

are not initially afraid of.

Resides: South Florida

# of years killing:25+

Upbringing:Did not know father, barely knew mother.

Raised by sibling or grandparent. May have

done time in prison at a young age, which led

to a lifelong fear of being incarcerated.

Fetishes:Bodybuilding, nice clothes, grooming

products (aftershave, cologne, cleansers)

Type of victim:Female prostitutes

Victims’ characteristics:Street walker (no call services)

20-30 years old

No kids or family (not missed)

Raped

Throat slit

Last seen at night

Black or Hispanic, but will kill a

white girl in a pinch.

Body found near hwy or public road

Notes:Can’t get enough of his victims. Just like

SOS. Should be easy to find.

Linderman chewed on the end of his pen. The last three lines were already haunting him. What did Crutch mean, can’t get enough of his victims? And who was SOS?

His lunch came. He’d lost his appetite, and pushed the plate aside.

He studied the Crutch’s notes until his eyes turned blurry. The clue to Killer X’s identity was staring him right in the face, yet he couldn’t identify it. Crutch had claimed that he could look at the photograph of a dead person, and know what their killer had been thinking when he’d committed the crime. Perhaps he needed to look at the victims’ autopsy photos, and see if anything popped out.

Then he had a thought. This wasn’t his case, it was Rachel’s. She had made Mr. Clean right from the start, and was tuned into him. Vick needed to have a crack at this, and see what she could come up with. He kicked himself for not thinking of her sooner.

It was not a phone call he wanted to make inside the restaurant. He found his waitress on the other side of the room, and mimed signing a check. She mouthed that she’d be right over.

He leaned back in his chair to wait. The morning’s events had added to his exhaustion, and he rubbed his eyes and smothered a yawn.

His gaze fell on the electric chair. The velvet rope was gone, the chair occupied by a man wearing an orange prison uniform, his arms and legs tied down. It was Crutch. His head had been shaved, and strapped beneath his chin was a leather restraining device to stop him from screaming when the juice was thrown. Behind the chair stood a man with his hand on a switch, his face masked by shadows.

The switch was thrown, and Crutch started to convulse. Smoke came off the top of his head, and blood poured down his nose. The man in the suit lifted the switch, and Crutch fell limp in the chair. He had ridden the lightening into the hereafter.

The executioner stepped out of the shadows. Linderman’s heart skipped a beat. He was looking at himself. He was the executioner.

“Something wrong?” the waitress asked, slapping the check down.

He snapped back to reality. The electric chair was empty, the velvet rope back in place. Nothing had happened.

“No,” he managed to say.

“You’re looking mighty pale. The food didn’t upset you, did it?”

“Food was fine.”

“You hardly touched a thing. Sure you don’t want me to send it back? It’s no problem.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Linderman settled his bill and went outside. He sat for a while in his rental, and tried to get his wits about him. Ten minutes later, he called Vick.

Chapter 31

Fucking DuCharme.

He hadn’t been satisfied to appear on local TV, and smear Vick’s reputation. He’d gone the extra mile, and was doing interviews with the talking heads on CNN. Tonight at eight, he’d be chatting with Nancy Grace. He was milking this for all it was worth.

Vick sat in her bathrobe and stared at the TV in her apartment in downtown Miami. Her unit was on the twelfth floor of a towering building built during the real estate craze. Great views, everything brand spanking new, and only a handful of renters. There had been break-ins, with people robbed at gunpoint. She kept a gun in every room.

The commercial break was over, and DuCharme was back. He had to know the world of trouble that Vick was in, yet didn’t seem to care. She’d been placed on paid leave along with the other members of her team from last night’s botched sting. There would be an internal review, plus a hearing where she’d have to face a panel and explain why things had gone so terribly wrong. She’d be lucky to keep her job. Even if she did stay, her career would never be the same.

DuCharme was speaking. She hit the Volume button on the remote.

“The FBI did not handle this right,” the detective said.

“In your opinion, what did the FBI do that was wrong?” the CNN interviewer asked.

“The agent in charge, Rachel Vick, should not have handled the case,” DuCharme replied. “She was infatuated with the kidnaping victim.”

“Did this cloud her judgement?” the interviewer asked.

“Yes, absolutely.”

A photograph of Wayne Ladd appeared on the screen. Wayne was at the beach with his friends, and had his shirt off. He was built like a gymnast, without an ounce of fat, and rock hard abs. It was hard not to be infatuated with him, Vick thought.

DuCharme returned to the screen.

“Will you be taking over the case now that Special Agent Vick has been suspended?” the interviewer asked.

Vick grabbed her slipper off her foot and threw it at the screen. “I wasn’t suspended you fucking morons!”

“Yes,” DuCharme said. “The case is now solely mine.”

“Good luck,” the interviewer said.

Vick stormed into her kitchen. Opening the cabinet, she took out a pile of dinner plates, and began throwing them onto the floor. Her chest was heaving and her heart was racing a hundred miles an hour. She didn’t need a crystal ball to see what was going to happen next. DuCharme would royally screw up the investigation, and Wayne Ladd would end up dead, just like Mr. Clean’s previous victims.

The phone rang. She threw last plate onto the floor and answered it.

“Hello,” she said breathlessly.

“Rachel? This is Ken. You okay?”

“Just great. How about you?”

“It’s been a rough morning. I have a new lead on Mr. Clean for you.”

“I’m off the case. Sitting at home watching myself get crucified on TV.”

“Turn off the TV and get back to work,” Linderman said.

“But I’m off the case.”

“No, you’re not. We’re going to crack this, Rachel.”

“We are?”

“Yes. Take this information I’m about to give you, and figure out who Mr. Clean is. Crutch did, and he’s sitting in a prison.”

“But I’m on leave. I could get fired.”

“No one’s going to fire you. I’ll make sure of that. Crack this puzzle, and you’ll be a hero. There are second acts in the FBI.”

Vick crossed the kitchen hearing the broken plates crack beneath her slippers. She sat down at the breakfast nook and ran her hand through her hair. Had Linderman been standing in the kitchen, she would have thrown her arms around him, and kissed him.

“What’s the information?” she asked.

“In Crutch’s cell were index cards he used to profile fifteen active serial killers. One of them was Mr. Clean. At the bottom of the card he wrote. “Can’t get enough of his victims. Just like SOS’. That led Crutch to figuring out who Mr. Clean was, and contacting him.”

“Was SOS in caps?” Vick asked.

“Yes, matter of fact.”

“Son of Sam.”

She heard Linderman’s gasp.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Positive. David Berkowitz, aka Son of Sam, wrote a number of letters to a New York Post columnist named Jimmy Breslin. He signed the later letters SOS. I wrote a paper about Berkowitz as part of my graduate thesis on serial killers.”

“Why would Crutch write “Just like SOS’ on the cards?”

“There could be a number of reasons. Berkowitz was an arsonist, and set over a thousand fires in Brooklyn and the Bronx. He carried on a lengthy correspondence with the media until his arrest. He also believed his dog was the devil, and was telling him to kill people. His dog’s name was Sam, so he called himself Son of Sam. Crutch must have seen something in Mr. Clean’s crimes that was just like Son of Sam.”

“That’s brilliant, Rachel.”

“Thank you. If we can examine Mr. Clean’s crimes, we should be able to find the link to Son of Sam.”

“I’ve already done that. Got a pencil?”

Vick grabbed a pad and pencil from the shelf next to the nook.

“Ready,” she said.

“Mr. Clean’s victims were female prostitutes between the ages of twenty and thirty. They were raped, then had their throats slit. Their bodies were dumped near public roads or highways. Most of them were Latino or black, but a few were white. None used call services. All of the victims were last seen at night.”

Vick wrote in large, block letters on the notepad. Finished, she placed her pencil down, and stared at the list. “Huh,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.

“I’m not seeing any connection to Son of Sam in this list.”

“Go through it with me.”

“All right. Berkowitz killed young couples sitting in cars, not prostitutes. He used a gun, never a knife. He left his victims in their cars, and never attempted to move their bodies. He often returned to the scene of his killings, and masturbated where the cars had been parked. None of those things resemble what you just told me about Mr. Clean.”

There was a pause as Linderman digested what she’d just said.

“There has to be a link,” he said.

Another pause, this time with Vick doing the thinking.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Berkowitz kept a diary which the police discovered after he was arrested. It was filled with information about what he was thinking at the time of his crimes. I have a transcript on my laptop that I referred to while writing my thesis. I’ll reread it, and try to make a connection to Mr. Clean.”

“I’m counting on you, Rachel. We need to crack this,” Linderman said.

“I’ll do my best. Are you coming back to South Florida?”

“Not yet. I’m going to take another stab at getting Crutch to tell me what he knows. I’m going to break this little bastard.”

Linderman’s ability to extract information from witnesses and suspects was extraordinary, and Vick would have liked to have seen him work over Crutch.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Thanks. I’m going to need some.”

She cleaned up the kitchen floor and took a hot shower. She emerged from the bathroom feeling ready to take on the challenge Linderman had given her.

Every crime had a solution. It came down to knowing what you were looking for, and where to look for it. Vick sat at her dining room table with her laptop and began the tedious process of reading David Berkowitz’s diary.

The transcript was several hundred pages long. Many of the early entries were trivial, and talked about Berkowitz’s dreary, day-to-day existence. The product of an illicit love affair, he’d been raised by foster parents, a situation that had gone well until his foster mother had unexpectedly died. His relationship with his foster father had deteriorated, and he’d begun to fantasize about connecting with his real family, and starting his life anew. He’d finally gotten his wish, only to have his mother and sister reject him. His slide into madness had started soon after that.

A hundred pages into the transcript, the neighbor’s dog started barking orders to Berkowitz, telling him to kill. Berkowitz would later claim that the dog was possessed by a three thousand year old demon. Prison psychiatrists believed that Berkowitz had made up the story to avoid the death chamber. Others were not so sure.

Vick decided to take a break.

She ate a sandwich at the kitchen sink, a habit from living alone. Through the window, she stared at the blight of downtown Miami. The city had been filled with promise when she’d moved in, a happening place with people her age looking for new experiences. The Great Recession had changed that. Construction had come to a screeching halt, and thousands had defaulted on their loans and rent. Downtown was now filled with empty shells of buildings, many of which were occupied by squatters, their campfires burning brightly at night in the empty floors.

Her apartment buzzer rang. The only other person on her floor was a chatty eighty-year-old widow named Mrs. Rosenberg. Mrs. Rosenberg was rarely home during the day, and Vick put down her sandwich and removed a loaded Sig Sauer from the kitchen drawer.

She went to the front door and looked through the peephole. Mrs. Rosenberg stood outside with a sweet smile on her face. Again the buzzer rang.

“Coming,” Vick said.

She stuck the Sig behind her back, and opened the door.

“Hey, Mrs. Rosenberg, how are you?” she asked.

“I’m splendid, Rachel,” her neighbor said. “I was in the lobby waiting for my cab, and this nice man asked me to let him in. He said he knew you, so of course I did.”

Mrs. Rosenberg giggled, no doubt thinking she was playing cupid. Vick stuck her head out, and saw the nice man standing in the hall, his eyes downcast.

It was fucking DuCharme.

Chapter 32

Mrs. Rosenberg giggled into her hand. “Well, I suppose I must be going. I’m sure you two young people have lots of talk about.”

“We certainly do,” Vick said. “Would you like Roger to escort you downstairs?”

“No, I need to get something from my apartment. Thank you, anyway.”

DuCharme walked Mrs. Rosenberg to her door across the hallway. When the detective returned to Vick’s door, she showed him the Sig.

“Is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?” DuCharme asked.

“Go fuck yourself,” Vick replied.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Send me an email. And don’t ever come into this apartment house unannounced again.”

DuCharme let out a deep, exaggerated breath. He was not the same man she’d seen on CNN earlier that day. His necktie was undone, the knot hanging halfway down his shirt like a hangman’s knot, his eyes watery and red. His silk sports jacket, so perfect for the television cameras, had not held up in the South Florida humidity, and had more creases than if he’d rolled down a hill.

“I’m sorry for everything I said. I was wrong,” the detective said.

Vick knew how well men lied. She held her ground.

“Go away.”

DuCharme reached into his jacket and removed several sheets of paper which were paper-clipped together. Vick spied the heading. It was a Broward Sheriff’s Department initial crime scene report.

“You need to see this, Rachel.”

“Piss off.”

“Come on, hear me out.”

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

“There’s been another killing.”

The sound of someone sneezing snapped both their heads. The door to Mrs. Rosenberg’s apartment creaked shut. Vick’s nosy neighbor was eavesdropping on their conversation.

“For the love of Christ, get your ass in here,” Vick said.

DuCharme shuffled into her apartment. She closed the door behind him and threw the deadbolt.

“Why the Sig?” he asked.

“The building’s had a lot of break-ins. I keep a loaded gun in every room.”

“It must be like living in Baghdad.”

“I’m not in the mood for small talk, Roger. Tell me what you have to say before I throw you out the flipping window.”

“I need a drink of water,” he said.

“Choking on your own words?”

“Please.”

She led him into the kitchen. He took a chair without being asked. His body language said that he’d just come from getting his ass chewed out. Cops were not supposed to slam other cops. His one-man publicity crusade had backfired on him. Poor Roger.

Vick set a glass of water down in front of him. She positioned herself on the other side of the room and leaned against the counter. She put the Sig down next to her.

“Tell me what happened,” she said.

DuCharme drank the water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “This morning a corpse was found on the roof of the parking garage across from the Broward Library. The head had been cut off. The corpse had a hat, which had a slip of paper stuck in the brim. The slip had the words Mr. Clean written on it.

“The coroner’s office examined the body. They’ve put the time of death at around the same time you and I were inside the library. Mr. Clean was watching us from the parking garage, and then killed someone and left him for us to see.”

“Any idea who the victim is?”

“They think he was a vagrant. Now, here’s the bad part. A reporter over at Fox News is all over the story, some pesky woman named Debbie Bodden. Bodden has made the connection between this killing, the shooting last night, and Wayne Ladd’s abduction. Fox was going to run a story on their noon news show saying that Mr. Clean was running amuck in Fort Lauderdale, but my boss got the station manager to put a lid on it.”

“How much time did he buy?”

“A day.”

Media shit storms were great at ruining criminal investigations, especially when the criminal was still at large. The clock was ticking.

“What do you want from me?” Vick asked.

“Help us find this guy. Please.”

“Who’s us? You?”

“Yeah. Moody wants me to stay involved in the investigation, and make amends.”

Vick laughed silently under her breath. No apology had been offered, just a tender pulling at her heart strings to stop a cold-blooded killer from claiming the life of another victim. She refilled DuCharme’s empty glass and threw the water in his face.

“Hey…!”

“That’s for going on television and ruining my reputation,” she said.

“I said I was sorry.”

“Fuck your sorry.”

“I’m going to issue an apology to the media once this is over, Rachel.”

“It’s too late for that. The damage is done. For the rest of my life, people will be able to Google my name, or go onto YouTube, and read or hear the things you said about me, none of which had an ounce of truth. You soiled me, Roger.”

Next to where DuCharme sat was a napkin dispenser. He pulled out several, which he used to dry his dripping wet face.

“You know, you’re really pretty when you’re angry,” he said.

The glass was still in Vick’s hand. Growing up with three older brothers had its advantages. For one thing, no one would ever accuse her of throwing like a girl.

She threw the glass at DuCharme with all her might. It winged the top of his head before hitting the wall and shattering.

She walked out of the kitchen, ignoring his plea for mercy.

Vick went to her computer room, a small space off her bedroom with no windows. Meant to be a closet, she’d stripped the shelving units off the walls, and replaced the cheap carpet with a piece more to her liking. She’d hung Clyde Butcher prints on the walls and stuck her computer table in the corner. PC, HP printer, and scanner, it was the piece of furniture she spent the most time with when in her apartment.

Everything stored in her laptop was also stored on her PC’s hard drive. She pulled up the transcript of Berkowitz’s diary and punched in a command. Soon pages were spitting out of her printer. When the print job was done, she returned to the kitchen.

To his credit, DuCharme had cleaned up the broken glass, and was washing his hands in the sink. She dropped the pages on the counter.

“You really want to find Mr. Clean?” she asked.

DuCharme dried his hands on a towel and nodded. His mouth had gotten him in more trouble than anything he’d ever done. Not speaking was a wise choice.

“Mr. Clean has been linked to another serial killer named Son of Sam who terrorized New York City back in the 1970s. This is a transcript of Son of Sam’s diary. Look through it, and see if anything about Son of Sam reminds you of Mr. Clean.”

DuCharme picked up the transcript and took a seat. He read with his head hanging over the table and his eyes a foot from the text. He needed reading glasses, but was too vain to accept it. Still, it was a fresh pair of eyes, and sometimes that was what was needed to bust an investigation wide open.

“We learned what Mr. Clean’s motivation is for kidnaping the boys,” Vick said.

He looked up, his face dead serious.

“He’s schooling an apprentice,” she said.

“You can’t be serious,” DuCharme muttered.

“It fits his profile. Mr. Clean is vain. Most vain people envision someone following in their footsteps. That’s why he chose Wayne Ladd.”

“Guess he made a good choice.”

Vick liked DuCharme better with his mouth shut, and walked out of the kitchen.

Chapter 33

Wayne Ladd did not know what time it was, what day it was, where he was. All he knew was that he’d been subjected to one hundred of the worst porno flicks ever made, and was sick of seeing women tortured and hearing them scream. It was getting old.

Besides, sex wasn’t like that. Sex was like Amber, soft and sweet and thrilling to the touch. Sex was holding and kissing and talking for a long time afterward about the things that mattered in your life. Sex was about the way things could be if you tried.

But Wayne had played along with the big Cuban. He’d figured out the game as best he could. So long as he got an erection for the movies, the big Cuban would tell him what a good boy he was, and treat him to a good meal. Every game had a scorecard, and this one wasn’t any different. Wayne wasn’t dead yet, which put him ahead.

Wayne heard the deadbolt on the door being thrown. The big Cuban entered wearing sweat pants and no shirt. He undid the leather straps holding Wayne to his chair while looking his victim in the eye. Wayne pretended not to be afraid.

“What’s that smell?” Wayne asked.

“Breakfast,” the big Cuban said. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

The big Cuban went to the door and motioned for him to follow. Wayne rose on unsteady legs. Except for going to the bathroom every few hours, he’d been strapped into the chair, and his legs had turned to jelly.

“Go in front of me,” the big Cuban said.

Wayne walked to the front of the house. The living and dining rooms were combined, with a kitchen off to the side. Steel hurricane shutters covered the windows, and the front door had three different locks. Escaping seemed out of the question.

“What are you cooking?” Wayne asked.

“Eggs, sausage and home fries,” the big Cuban said.

“Good. Watching all that porno made me hungry.”

Wayne had always had the knack of getting adults to like him. The big Cuban offered the faintest of smiles. He put his hand on Wayne’s shoulder, and left it there.

“The movies were good, yes?”

“Couldn’t get enough of them,” Wayne said. “That’s some collection you’ve got. How big is it?”

“I have thousands of films. One day I will let you pick out some to watch.”

Wayne had a feeling the collection didn’t include any South Park or remakes of Batman. The big Cuban went into the kitchen and he followed him. It was small and spotlessly clean. His mother could definitely take some lessons from this guy.

A knife sat on a cutting board. The big Cuban used it to chop an onion, which he added to the eggs he was scrambling in a frying pan on the stove. Wayne didn’t see any other knives or sharp objects in the kitchen that could be used as weapons. He didn’t think that was a coincidence. The big Cuban was testing him.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

The big Cuban kept chopping. “Renny.”

“Can I call you that?”

“That would be fine.”

Wayne leaned against the counter and watched Renny make breakfast. The guy was good with his hands, the knife a blur as the onion got turned into tiny pieces. Renny added pepper and some spices and turned the heat up on the eggs. He pulled a wooden spoon out of a jar on the counter, and handed it to Wayne.

“Stir them while I prepare the sausage,” his captor said.

Wayne stirred the eggs while Renny tore the plastic off a package of sausage. The teenager asked himself a simple question. If Renny turned around or got distracted, could he grab the knife from the cutting board, and stab him with it? Renny was big and strong, but all that muscle wouldn’t stop a sharp blade. One good plunge into the heart was all it was going to take. If the knife was sharp enough, the plunge could come from the front or back, and end Renny’s life. The hard part would be the aftermath. Watching his mother’s boyfriend die had ripped him apart, the memory burned into his brain. But he’d kill Renny if the chance presented himself. It was his only ticket out of here.

Soon their breakfast was ready. Renny asked Wayne what he wanted to drink.

“You got any OJ?” Wayne asked.

“Yes. It’s in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

“You want some?”

“That would be good.”

Renny picked up their plates of food, and moved toward the dining room table, his back to Wayne. Seeing his chance, Wayne moved next to the counter where Renny had prepared the food. The knife was no longer there. He hadn’t seen Renny put it away, and wondered if he’d stuck it in his pocket.

“What are you looking for?” his captor asked.

The guy had eyes in the back of his head, Wayne thought.

“Some glasses for the juice,” Wayne said, not missing a beat.

“The glasses are in the cupboard next to the refrigerator.”

Wayne found two plastic glasses and put them on the counter. Then he pulled open the refrigerator door and searched for the OJ. His eyes fell upon the bowling-ball sized object sitting on the front shelf. The object was wrapped in saran wrap and looked like a rotting melon with hair growing on it. Without thinking, he took it out for a closer look.

Then, he freaked. It was the head of a small black man.

Wayne tried to yell but no sound came out of his mouth. The dead man’s pink tongue was sticking out of his mouth and pressed against his face. One of his eyes was open, and was staring at Wayne. Wayne told himself it was all a horrible dream.

“I see you found my friend,” Renny said.

Renny reached around Wayne and removed a carton of OJ from the back of the shelf. The head was put back and the refrigerator door closed.

“Come and eat,” Renny said, pouring two glasses of OJ.

Wayne sat down at the dining room table. The room was spinning and he felt ready to pass out. He hadn’t gone to hell. Hell had come to him.

The smell of the food on his plate snapped him awake. He plunged his fork into the runny eggs and pretended to eat. He could feel Renny’s eyes burning a hole into his soul.

“He was a bad man. He was going to hurt me,” Renny said.

“I figured as much,” Wayne said.

“There are times when it’s necessary to kill. Do you agree?”

“I guess.”

“Like your mother’s boyfriend. Don’t you think he deserved to die, Wayne?”

Wayne speared a piece of sausage on his fork. It looked as appetizing as road kill. The day he’d pulled the knife out of his mother’s boyfriend’s heart, he’d known his life would be changed, but he’d never expected anything like this.

“Yeah, he deserved it,” the teenager said.

“Would you bring him back, if you could?”

“No. Never.”

“I didn’t think so,” his captor said.

Wayne forced the food down. He had only one option, and that was to play along with Renny, and hope for the best. Otherwise, he’d end up in the refrigerator next to the cream cheese. It would have been funny, if it hadn’t been so sick.

When they were finished eating, he and Renny sat on the couch in the living room, and watched a porno movie on the big screen TV. This one was sicker than the others, and showed a three-hundred pound farmer beating up his two daughters while having sex with them. Not your usual family picture, Wayne thought.

Halfway through the film, Renny put his arm behind Wayne, and rested his hand on Wayne’s shoulder. The teenager wanted to scream, but sucked up his fear instead. He thought of the Big Brother he’d had growing up. The guy had been a dork, but he’d still taken Wayne to ball games and the movies. He found himself missing those times.

The film ended. There were no credits, just a blank screen.

“Did you like that one?” Renny asked.

“The cinematography was outstanding,” Wayne said.

His captor laughed. Then, he slapped Wayne on the leg.

“I think you are ready for the next phase of the Program,” Renny said.

Wayne didn’t like the sounds of that. He turned sideways on the couch.

“What are you talking about” the teenager asked.

“I am going to find you a woman tonight. One you can call your very own.”

Oh, no, Wayne thought.

Chapter 34

The FBI’s new building in Jacksonville reeked of fresh paint and new carpet. Like so much of Florida, the surrounding industrial park was also new, and housed dozens of national companies whose names were instantly familiar.

Linderman sat in an empty office flooded with mid-afternoon sunlight. He’d called Vaughn Wood an hour before, and asked for help. Wood had pulled through, and was now assembling his best field agents in the conference room a few doors down.

The coffee he’d bought from the vending machine in the employee cafeteria tasted bitter. It was his fifth cup of the day, and he felt sharp and alert. His mind had stopped playing tricks on him, which he told himself was a good sign.

His cell phone vibrated. Muriel calling.

“Hi,” he answered.

“I was starting to worry about you,” his wife said.

They had a simple pact. When he was on the road, he called his wife twice a day. He hadn’t done that since coming to Jacksonville. He was slipping in more than one area.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Is everything all right? You sound tired and out of sorts.”

“It’s been a long couple of days.”

“You should have called. I was afraid something had happened.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, hearing the agitation in his voice.

“When are you coming home? Or don’t you know.”

“Soon. A few days at most.”

The door to the office opened halfway, and Wood stuck his head in.

“Ready when you are,” Wood said.

Linderman cupped his hand over his cell phone. “I’ll be right there.”

“Take your time.”

Wood shut the door. Linderman took his hand away from the phone. He was going to have to eventually tell Muriel what he’d learned. In person was always better, but waiting was never good. She was his partner, and needed to know what he knew.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “This morning, I had a conversation with an inmate at Starke prison who knows what happened to our daughter.”

“Oh, God, Ken. What did he tell you?”

“He said that Danni was sold into slavery a few weeks after she went missing. He knew information about Danni’s abduction that indicated he was telling the truth.”

“Slavery?” His wife started to cry.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Danni worked her way into her abductor’s heart. She convinced him not to kill her, so he sold her instead. Our daughter knew what she was doing.”

“What are you saying? That I should be happy?”

“Danni made a choice that saved her life. It was her choice. Be thankful for that. Now I have to find the man that owns her.”

He listened to his wife blow her nose.

“Do you think she’s still alive?” she asked.

Linderman had asked himself the same question a dozen times since speaking to Crutch. There was no absolute way to know. But then he’d reminded himself of something. If Danni could survive the likes of Simon Skell, she could survive anything.

“Yes, I do,” he said.

“You’re not just saying that, are you?”

“No, Muriel. I think our daughter is alive.”

His wife breathed heavily into the phone. Her heart was racing, just like his own, the sound the only punctuation in a world filled with awful silence. It was a sound the parent of every missing child knew. Of a distant heartbeat, waiting to be found.

He rose from his chair. “I’ll call you tonight. Promise.”

“I love you,” his wife said.

Linderman entered the conference room and apologized for holding everyone up. Five clean-cut agents sat at an oval table with bottled waters in front of their laptops. Each agent acknowledged him with a slight dip of the head.

Wood stood at the head of the table with his jacket off, waiting to start. “Good afternoon. I’d like to introduce Ken Linderman, supervisory agent of the CARD unit in the FBI’s North Miami office. Ken is an old friend and trusted colleague. Ken has asked for our help in dealing with an unusual situation. Please give him your undivided attention.”

The five agents shifted their attention to Linderman. Two were Asian, two African-American, one Latino. The FBI had changed a lot since Linderman had joined. Back then, ninety-nine percent of the agents were white, and most gatherings had resembled a sitting for a Norman Rockwell painting.

“This morning I met with an inmate at Starke Prison named Jason Crutchfield, also known as Crutch,” Linderman said. “For the past year, Crutch has been communicating with a serial killer in Fort Lauderdale named Killer X. Mr. Clean has been abducting violent teenage boys, and attempting to groom them into becoming serial killers. Crutch has been helping him.

“During our meeting, Crutch attempted to broker a deal with me. He gave me some scant information regarding Mr. Clean’s occupation. He also offered to give me information about my daughter, who was abducted six years ago by another serial killer named Simon Skell.”

The coffee cup was in Linderman’s hand. Crushing it, he tossed the cup into a plastic pail. Everyone in the room was watching him.

“In exchange for this information, Crutch wants me to leave him alone, and not talk to the parole board next year when his sentence is reviewed,” Linderman went on. “Crutch has good reason for wanting me to stay out of his hair. Since being incarcerated, he’s been linked to twenty-four killings in different parts of the country.

“I want to put the screws to Crutch, and scare him into telling me what Mr. Clean does for a living, and also what happened to my daughter. That’s where you come in.

“The twenty-four killings are over a decade old. At the time, the police didn’t know they were linked, or that a serial killer was involved. I’m guessing that a lot of DNA evidence has been lost since those crimes were committed. We’re going to need to dig deep to find what we’re looking for. Any questions?”

The five agents at the table exchanged glances. Something was obviously bothering them. The Latino agent raised her hand. She looked about thirty, with curly dark hair and a round, almost sweet face.

“Yes,” Linderman said.

“Special Agent Amanda Cruz,” she said. “Do you think you should excuse yourself from the investigation, considering the circumstances? I mean, it is your daughter.”

It was an honest question, deserving of a thoughtful response. Being too close to an investigation led to poor decision making, and lapses in judgement. Cruz had every right to ask Linderman if he was up to the task.

Linderman picked his words carefully. He wanted to tell Cruz not to worry, that he could handle it, only something was preventing him from doing so.

Rage.

The feeling was strange. Like he was flying down the highway at a hundred miles an hour. Fearful of losing control, yet not caring if he did.

His rage began to boil over. He felt the overwhelming desire to curse out Cruz, and call her ugly names. Bitch, whore, wetback, came to mind. He imagined Cruz talking back to him, and the angry response it would incur.

He bit his tongue to stop the words from rushing out of his mouth. He’d never cursed a woman in his life. The amount of times he’d raised his voice to Muriel he could count on one hand. This wasn’t him.

So who the hell was it?

He didn’t know. He counted silently to five, and the rage slipped away.

“I probably should excuse myself,” he admitted. “Only we have a ticking clock. A teenage boy in Fort Lauderdale has been abducted. We need to move fast.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Cruz, and she nodded thoughtfully.

“Any more questions?” Linderman asked.

The other four agents at the table shook their heads.

“Good. Let’s get to work,” Linderman said.

Chapter 35

Linkage analysis.

The words had become a catchphrase within the FBI during the past decade, and had helped track down and capture more serial killers than any single piece of forensic science.

The concept behind linkage analysis was simple. By examining behavior that was contained in three distinct components of a crime, law enforcement would be able to draw a more complete picture of a killer, and as a result, bring him to justice.

Standing at a white drawing board in the front of the conference room, Linderman used a magic marker to write the three components of linkage analysis.

Modus Operandi (MO)

Ritual

Signature

The five agents from the Jacksonville office stared at their laptops. Each agent had read Bob Kessler’s report about Crutch. Also on their laptops were the homicide reports from the six cities where Crutch’s twenty-four victims had been discovered. The police departments in those cities had emailed Linderman the information which they’d collected on those killings, hoping to get the cases off their books.

“Let’s start with Crutch’s MO,” Linderman said. “Anyone want to take a stab?”

The line brought grins from the group. Cruz went first.

“It’s identical in each killing,” she said. “The victims are raped and killed and left in a wooded area that’s frequented by picnickers and nature lovers. Their bodies are naked, and have been bitten around the face and neck. In each city, three of the victims were severely beaten with a blunt instrument, while a fourth victim was not. According to the autopsy reports, each victim died from massive blood loss.”

Linderman wrote each item in bold letters next to MO on the board. Then he turned around to face Cruz. “Do the victims share any similarities?” he asked.

Cruz scrolled through the homicide reports. “The victims who weren’t beaten were all young, and small in stature.”

“How young?”

“Late teens.”

“How old were the other victims?”

“In each city, there was one victim in her late forties, while the other two were in their mid-twenties.”

“Should we assume he’s profiling his victims before he kills them?”

“It would appear so.”

Linderman wrote these items next to Ritual on the board.

“Who wants to go next?” he asked.

Waller, one of the two African-American agents, spoke up. Tall and broad-shouldered, Waller carried himself like an athlete, his hands animated as he spoke.

“Each of these crime scenes is identical,” Waller pointed out. “The bodies were dumped in the woods near each other. The autopsy reports say the victims died at different times, yet they all ended up in the same place. Crutch brought them to the woods and did something to them, then left them.”

“At the same time?” Linderman asked.

“Yes, at the same time,” Waller said.

“How can you be certain?” Linderman pressed him. “For all we know, Crutch could have dumped the victims at different times.”

The conference room fell silent. Waller needed more facts to bolster his argument. The agent glanced at his laptop while gathering his thoughts.

“I don’t think so. Here’s why,” Waller said. “In each of the cities, hikers discovered the bodies. If Crutch had been dumping the bodies at different times, the bodies would have been discovered individually. That didn’t happen. In each city, the bodies were discovered together.”

Linderman liked where Waller was headed, but still wanted more proof.

“Why didn’t the police in these cities see this?” Linderman asked.

“They didn’t have the luxury of looking at six crime scenes,” Waller replied. “Since the autopsy reports indicated the victims died at different times, the police in each city assumed the bodies were dumped at different times. I think the police were wrong.”

“How can you be sure without evidence?” Linderman asked.

“The similarities in the crime scenes is our evidence,” Waller explained. “Serial killers are driven by ritualistic fantasies. These fantasies express the killer’s primary motivation for committing the crime. Crutch was killing his victims, then bringing their bodies to the woods to perform the ritual, then leaving the bodies once the ritual was finished. That’s why the crime scenes in the six cities are identical.”

Linderman added the points to the board next to the word Ritual.

Four female victims in each city

One middle age female (45-50)

Two young females (20-30)

One teenager female (15-18)

Bodies brought to woods to perform ritual

He examined what he’d written. They were getting closer to learning Crutch’s motivation, always a watershed moment when dealing with serial killers. His attention shifted back to the group.

“So what’s the ritual?” he asked.

Cruz again answered. “Crutch purposely chose wooded areas to dump his victims’ bodies. Those areas were all near hiking paths, and were well used by the public. There might be another connection here that we’re missing.”

“In the sites themselves,” Linderman said.

“Exactly,” Cruz said. “The police assumed the bodies were dumped in the woods because that’s where most killers dump bodies. But that may not be our killer’s motivation. The woods may have held some other significance to him.”

The door to the conference room opened. Wood entered holding two cardboard pizza boxes and a six pack of Coke dangling from his fingertips.

“Break time,” Wood announced.

Soon everyone was eating. Linderman had asked Wood to order the food, wanting to repay the group for their time in some small way.

“How’s it going?” Wood asked, biting into a slice of pepperoni.

“We’re making progress,” Linderman replied.

After break, the group studied the crime scene photos.

A plasma TV was wheeled into the room, and the police crime scene photos taken in the six cities were displayed. The majority showed the corpses after they’d been dug up from shallow graves. The sameness of the dead women was striking – the older victims were tall and thin, the youngest short and heavyset.

Looking at the dead was never easy, and the Jacksonville team viewed the bodies in silence, the only sound coming from their writing instruments as they jotted down notes.

“Who wants to go first?” Linderman asked.

Waller lifted a finger into the air. “The victims were all props,” he said.

The same thought had crossed Linderman’s mind. Not wanting to steal Waller’s thunder, he waited for the agent to continue.

“Crutch’s ritual requires four women of a certain size and age, an ensemble if you will,” Waller went on. “The victims are brought to the woods and put in specific positions so that Crutch can act out his ritual. Once the ritual is over, the women are tossed away, and he leaves. He’s more concerned about his ritual than hiding the bodies.”

The group nodded as one. Waller had hit the nail on the head.

“Very good,” Linderman said. “Now let’s figure out what Crutch’s ritual is.”

An agent named Jason Choy raised his hand. Choy was small and slight of build. The FBI had once placed height requirements on new agents that had prevented someone of Choy’s size from joining. Those requirements had been lifted when the bureau had realized that intellect was more important than physical size.

“Yes, Jason,” Linderman said.

“I think I found something,” Choy said.

The look on Choy’s face said that he’d struck gold. Choy spun his laptop computer around so the screen faced the room. On it was an aerial photograph taken by the police at the Atlanta crime scene. Aerial photographs were essential in recording crime scenes, as they clearly depicted geography, as well as physical relationships and distances.

Choy pointed at an object in the aerial photograph.

“Look at this,” he said.

Linderman crossed the room to have a look. The other agents leaned in to look as well. The object on the screen was rectangular, and within equal proximity to where the victims’ bodies had been found.

“What is it?” Linderman asked.

“It appears to be a picnic table,” Choy replied. “I think Crutch sat the bodies on the table as part of his ritual.”

“How can you be sure?”

Choy clicked the mouse on his laptop. Another photograph appeared. An aerial shot of the Raleigh crime scene. Linderman spotted the table in the photograph without having to be shown. It was right next to an outdoor barbecue in a clearing.

Choy ran through the other aerial photographs of the murder scenes on his laptop. There was a picnic table somewhere in each photograph.

Linderman was not going to jump to conclusions. He had the other agents pull up the aerial photographs on their laptops, with each laptop showing a different aerial photo. The laptops were placed on the table in a row, allowing the agents to view them side-by-side, and compare the murder scenes. By comparing the photos, it became clear that Choy had found a signature linking each of the crimes.

“I kept wondering how Crutch was propping the bodies up to perform his ritual,” Choy explained. “Then I spotted the table. It makes sense, don’t you think?”

Linderman swallowed the rising lump in his throat. Four women, one older, two early twenties, one a teen, sitting at a table like a family. His conversation with Bob Kessler came back to him. Kessler had said that Crutch may have killed his family. Was that what was going on here? Was Crutch killing his family over and over as part of his ritual?

He needed to call Kessler. But first, congratulations were in order. He walked around the oval table, and pumped Choy’s hand.

“That’s brilliant,” he said.

Chapter 36

They took a break. Linderman went outside and walked around to the back of the building. The afternoon had heated up, without a whisper of breeze in the air. He spotted a heron fishing at the edge of a retention pond. Keeping his distance, he pulled out his cell phone, and punched in Bob Kessler’s home number.

Kessler’s voice mail picked up. The retired profiler’s message was firm but polite. Leave a message and he’d call you back. Linderman had always liked direct, which was why he supposed he’d gotten along so well with Kessler when he’d worked for him.

He left a message and folded his phone. Already starting to sweat, he stood beneath a shady stand of oak trees. It was better here, the darkness a welcome relief from the uncompromising glare of sunlight. His eyes fell on the picnic table a few yards away.

The table was empty. It had recently been occupied, the smell of cigarettes lingering in the air, a plastic ashtray overflowing with butts. He’d smoked when he’d first started in the FBI, along with practically everyone else. He’d quit the week his daughter had been born, but the cravings were still there.

He leaned against a tree, and waited for Kessler to call back.

He thought about the significance of the table in the aerial photographs. Tables were communal places where people got together to eat and talk and share stories. They did not generally fit into the killing patterns of madmen, but he supposed there were exceptions to every rule, and this was such an exception. In each city where he’d lived, Crutch had propped his victims’ bodies around a table before he’d discarded them. Why?

A few minutes later his cell phone rang. It was Bob.

“Hope I’m not getting you at a bad time,” Linderman said.

“There are no bad times when you’re retired,” Kessler replied. “You still working on the Jason Crutchfield case?”

“Yes.”

“How’s it going?”

He gave Kessler a rundown of the events which had happened since their phone conversation the day before. His ex-boss let out a deep breath when he was done.

“This isn’t good, Ken,” Kessler said.

“We’re doing the best we can,” Linderman replied.

“I’m not talking about the investigation, which I’m sure you’re handling properly. What bothers me is that you’re letting Crutch get close to you. The guy’s pure evil. He brings out the worst in people.”

Linderman thought back to strange and horrible things which had happened to him since he’d talked with Crutch in the chaplain’s study that morning.

“Are you speaking from experience?” Linderman asked.

“Yes, I am,” Kessler said. “I got close enough to him, and his crimes, for it to affect me. It wasn’t good.”

“Would you mind telling me what happened?”

“Sure. I couldn’t sleep, and I lost my appetite. Ended up losing about fifteen pounds. I argued with my wife a lot, and also with strangers who upset me. I got so fatigued, I started to hallucinate.”

“Were your hallucinations violent?”

“Yes. I wrote them all down. I thought I was having a mental breakdown, and wanted to chronicle what was happening to me in case I had to be institutionalized. I figured it would give the doctors a head start on figuring out how to treat me.”

He could see Kessler doing this, his degree of organization far above anyone else he’d ever worked with. He said, “Did you end up going into the hospital?”

“You mean did I go nuts? No, thank God. I eventually got back to normal. Just woke up one morning, and the sky was sunny again.”

“Did you ever imagine yourself killing someone?” Linderman asked.

There was a silence on the line.

“Several times,” Kessler said.

“How?”

“With my hands. Is that happening to you, Ken?”

“Yes. I imagined killing Crutch at the prison.”

“That’s not surprising, considering what he said about your daughter.”

“It was real. I was doing it. Then I snapped back to reality.”

“That’s not good. How many times has this happened?”

If he lied to Kessler, their friendship would suffer because of it. But if he told Kessler the truth, Bob would pick up the phone, and alert someone within the bureau that he was having mental issues.

“Just once,” Linderman lied. “What would you suggest if it happens again?”

“Go see a doctor. You don’t want these fantasies invading your thoughts. They’re extremely dangerous.”

Yes, they are, Linderman thought.

“Thanks for the warning,” Linderman said. “Now, let me tell you why I called. You mentioned yesterday there was evidence that Crutch had murdered his family. Can you give me some specifics?”

“Sure,” Kessler said. “When Crutch was arrested in Melbourne for kidnaping Lucy Moore, he let the police interview him. During the interview, Crutch mentioned his family back in Pittsburgh, and how they hadn’t gotten along when he was growing up. It peaked my curiosity, so I did some digging. I found a distant cousin in Massachusetts who was very helpful.

“The cousin’s name was Horace Perret, if I remember correctly. Ex-military guy. Perret told me that Crutch appeared on his doorstep with a suitcase one day, and asked if he could stay for a while. Crutch claimed that his family had moved to Canada, which was where the mother was originally from. Crutch said that his mother had been angry with him, and left him behind to fend for himself.”

“How old was Crutch?” Linderman asked.

“Crutch was about to enter his junior year in highschool, so that would have made him either sixteen or seventeen. Perret said that Crutch appeared to be handling the separation pretty well, and said several times that it was probably for the better. Perret said that Crutch lived with him for six months, and then went to stay with another relative in Boston, and lived with that relative until he graduated highschool. Crutch was extremely bright, and got accepted to MIT on a full academic scholarship. Perret said he lost touch with Crutch after that, as did other members of the family.”

“What led you to think Crutch murdered his family, and that his story wasn’t true?”

“I did a public records search in Canada for Crutch’s mother. I also contacted the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and got them to do a search. The woman didn’t exist, and neither did her children.”

“Do you know how many children there were?”

Kessler paused, thinking. “Three besides Crutch.”

“Were they all female?”

“Yes… how did you know?”

“Crutch has been killing his mother and three sisters over and over in the cities where he’s lived. It’s his ritual.”

Kessler said something that sounded like a curse. A rarity for him.

“Why didn’t I see that?” Kessler said, angry with himself.

“You kept him in prison, Bob. That’s more than enough.”

Kessler continued to grumble. This would eat at him for a long time.

“I need to get back to work,” Linderman said. “One last question. Do you have the address for Crutch’s family home in Pittsburgh?”

“It should be in my files. Hold on.”

Kessler was gone for several minutes. Linderman continued to watch the heron catch fish from the pond. Kessler came back on the line.

“Found it. They lived on 712 Morningside Drive in Oakmont, which is an old suburb about twenty minutes from downtown.”

Linderman took a pen from his pocket and wrote the address on the back of a business card. He thanked his old boss for his help.

“Keep me in the loop,” Kessler said. “I want to hear how this plays out.”

Linderman said goodbye and folded his phone. Crutch was a smart killer, and had left no evidence linking him to his heinous crimes. But what about the first time, when he’d killed his mother and sisters? Had he had the presence of mind to clean up after himself then? More than likely, he hadn’t. He needed to catch a flight to Pittsburgh, and pay a visit to the Crutchfield family home. If his hunch was right, there would be enough evidence there to link Crutch to his family’s murders, and make him talk.

He headed back to the building. A shadow passed directly overhead, momentarily eclipsing the sun. It was the heron, its wings flapping furiously.

He glanced over his shoulder in alarm. Four women now occupied the picnic table. He had no idea where they’d come from. Their physical similarities were striking, right down to having identical facial features and the same hair color. Their mouths moved up and down as they chatted happily away.

A teenage boy dressed in blue jeans and a white tee-shirt emerged from behind a tree. It was Crutch. His hair was much fuller, his body lighter. Clutched in his hands was an axe handle which he waved menacingly in the air. He stood at the head of the table, and screamed silently at the women.

The four women ignored him, and continued to chat away.

Crutch moved to hit one of the women, then froze. He looked in Linderman’s direction, the expression on his face a mixture of savagery and pain. Like he could not help himself.

Linderman knew that what he was seeing was not real, yet it did not change his response. He ran toward the picnic table, intent on stopping Crutch.

By the time he reached the table, they were gone.

Chapter 37

Routines did not change inside a prison. It was part of the punishment.

At three o’clock, the inmates in Crutch’s cellblock were let outside. For the next hour, they could play basketball, smoke cigarettes, or do nothing.

It was the best part of the day.

Crutch stood eagerly by his cell door. He was filled with stress, and needed to go run around and stretch. He’d read how stress caused cancer and other fatal diseases. He didn’t want to get sick in prison. The care was terrible.

He’d expected to have heard from Linderman by now. Linderman’s unwillingness to accept his deal had surprised him. Didn’t Linderman want to know what had happened to his beloved child? Or was he going to stick to the rules, and not let Crutch get the best of him? Crutch didn’t see him holding out forever. Losing the thing you loved most in the world was never fun. That he knew for a fact.

The fat guard named Mickey approached his cell. He motioned for Crutch to step back, and the door electronically opened. He stepped in.

“Something wrong?” Crutch asked.

“Not a thing,” Mickey said.

He punched Crutch in the stomach. Crutch went down on one knee, gasping for air. “Asshole,” Mickey said.

“What’s wrong?” he gasped.

“You fucked up.”

“I didn’t do anything…”

“Tell that to the FBI. They were bugging the cell phones, listening to you. The shit’s going to hit the fan.”

Crutch took several deep breaths. “What’s going to happen?”

“Stand up. I can’t hear you.”

“Promise you won’t hit me again.”

“I won’t hit you again.”

Crutch pulled himself to his feet and Mickey punched him again. There was no truth inside a prison, just the same lies, told over and over. He went back down.

“Asshole,” Mickey said again.

Crutch wanted to kill Mickey. It wouldn’t be terribly hard – Mickey was fat and slow and wouldn’t see it coming. But Crutch first needed to find out the extent of the damages. He needed to know what he was facing with the other inmates.

“Tell me. Please,” he begged.

“Jenkins is reviewing what happened,” Mickey said. “Every guard who’s involved will either get fined, or fired, or both. The inmates who were involved will lose their privileges and it will go in their files. Everybody’s fucked because of you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to screw up.”

“You’re sorry? Jenkins said you were talking to some whack-job in Fort Lauderdale who’s killing teenagers. You didn’t tell us you were a child killer, little man.”

Crutch felt Mickey’s hands gripping the sides of his arms. The guard pulled him to his feet and shook him. His round, pimply face was right there in front of him.

Kill him! the voice inside Crutch’s head screamed.

“Jenkins also said you were the sickest puppy he’s ever come across,” Mickey said. “That says a lot, coming from him.”

The inmates had started to file out of the cellblock. Mickey spun Crutch around and pushed him out of the cell. Crutch tried to put on the brakes. He needed to stay here, and think things out. Too much was happening at once for him to deal with.

“Come on,” the guard said.

“I don’t want to go into the yard,” Crutch said.

“You don’t have a choice, little man.”

Mickey continued to push him out of the building until they were standing in the blinding sunlight of the grassy yard, surrounded by hundreds of other inmates whose eyes seemed to catch on Crutch’s face and tear at the skin.

“Have a nice day,” Mickey said, walking away.

Crutch stood frozen to the ground. He thought about the metal shiv hidden in the hollow leg of his bed. He knew that many inmates carried their shivs for protection when they were in the yard. He had never felt the need to carry a weapon, convinced he could talk his way out of any tight situation.

Until now.

He couldn’t talk his way out of the web of lies he’d spun. They’d started the day he’d entered Starke, and had continued until a few short minutes ago, the facade of him being a soft-spoken Milquetoast easy for the other inmates to digest. But now the other inmates had been given a taste of the real him, and that was unacceptable even to their lowly standards. It was only a matter of time before they retaliated.

He was going to die.

The other inmates would gang up, and figure out the best way to kill him. They’d recruit another inmate who had nothing to lose, and give him the job. It would be like a badge of honor.

He scurried around the yard, looking for a place to hide. He tried to join several groups of inmates standing in tight circles, but was rebuffed each time.

“Get the hell away from us,” an inmate swore.

“Yeah – fuck off,” another warned.

He came to the basketball courts. A pick-up game was going on between a team of black inmates, and a team of white inmates. The white team couldn’t play worth a damn, but that didn’t stop them from throwing elbows and putting up a fight.

A crowd of white inmates stood beside the court, shouting encouragement to the white players. They were muscle heads, and spent their free time in the weight room, pumping iron. Crutch stood behind their broad bodies, and pretended to watch the game. For a few minutes, everything was good. Then, one of the white inmates spotted him.

“Look who’s here,” the inmate said.

The inmate was a bank robber out of Pensacola named Justin Hainz. Hainz had a nasty side that even the black inmates respected. Hainz grabbed Crutch, and put him in a headlock.

“Cut it out,” Crutch said.

“You’ve been a bad boy,” Hainz said.

“Haven’t we all?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Come on, let me go.”

“Hey guys, look who came for a visit,” Hainz said to the others.

The others formed a tight circle around the two, no longer interested in the violence taking place around the hoops. Crutch struggled to free himself.

“Let me go!”

Hainz threw him to the ground. Crutch landed on his back, and spent a moment trying to regain his senses. He looked up into a sea of hatred.

“Who wants him first?” Hainz asked the group.

“I do.” One of the blacks penetrated the group, and pointed at him. “Motherfucker ruined my business. Without my cell phone, I can’t talk to my runners no more.”

It was his neighbor, Leon.

“Come on, Leon, I didn’t mean to screw you up,” Crutch said.

“Doesn’t matter what you meant,” Leon said.

Leon raised his leg. Once Leon started kicking him, the others would join in. This happened often in the yard, the inmates pent-up rage turning into a feeding frenzy of violence. They would kick in his teeth and break his ribs and puncture his stomach and he’d go to the infirmary and never be the same. He wouldn’t die, but he’d wished he had.

Kill him, the voice inside his head said.

Crutch hesitated. So many times during his prison stay, the voice inside his head had told him to kill another inmate, or a guard. Just as many times, he’d refused to listen. It had been hard, but he had no other choice.

But the game had changed. Now, it was about survival. Killing so that he might continue to live.

Do it, the voice said.

Crutch sprang to his feet and threw himself onto Leon, wrapping his arms and legs around the black inmate’s body. He did hundreds of push-ups every day in his cell, and was stronger than people thought.

Leon tried to shake him off. When that didn’t work, he brought a fist up, and clocked Crutch in the back of the head.

“Let go, motherfucker,” Leon said.

The other inmates were slapping their sides with laughter. They did not see the threat, just as Leon did not see the threat.

Bite him, the voice commanded.

Crutch sunk his teeth into Leon’s neck and tore away at the flesh until he’d found the jugular vein. Warm blood splashed onto Crutch’s face and streamed down his neck. He brought his face away, and watched the blood geyser out of Leon’s body.

Leon screamed and did a pirouette with Crutch still hanging on. Then he fell backwards, his body making a terrific Whumph! as it landed on the grass. The other inmates stepped back, their laughter gone.

Crutch stayed on top of Leon, and drank his blood. He knew the perils of this, the inmates rife with AIDs and other fatally transmitted diseases, but he did not care. He had missed the erotic ecstasy of tasting a person’s blood as the life seeped from their body. It was like dying and going to heaven.

It was love.

Finally the guards pulled him off Leon’s lifeless body, and hauled him away.

Chapter 38

“I think we’re going about this wrong,” DuCharme said.

Food was fuel during an investigation. They were eating chips and salsa at a Mexican restaurant called Pepe’s in North Miami. Vick had not spoken ten words to the detective since he’d weaseled his way into her apartment a few hours ago. She still wanted to rip his head off for what he’d done to her.

“How so?” she replied, upping the word count.

“Son of Sam’s crimes are somehow similar to Mr. Clean’s crimes, right?”

Vick wiped her chin with a paper napkin and nodded.

“If we can figure out the similarity, it will lead us to figuring out what Mr. Clean does for a living, right?”

DuCharme’s tone was nothing but condescending. Like the investigation was his, and she was just palling along for the ride.

“Get to the point,” she said.

“We’ve just wasted two hours reading up on Son of Sam, and haven’t found the similarity. Maybe we should be reexamining the files on Mr. Clean instead. You never know – something might jump out at us.”

Vick stopped eating. DuCharme was as thick as a brick when it came to police work, yet this was a good idea. Even blind pigs got acorns, she supposed.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Vick said. “Instead of looking at files, why don’t we go and look at one of the crime scenes? It will give us a better feel for him.”

“You mean where he dumped one of his victims?” DuCharme asked.

“Yes. I did that when I was writing my thesis on Son of Sam. I flew to New York, and went to several locations in Queens where Son of Sam shot his victims while they were sitting in their cars. It helped me get a feel for the guy’s psyche.”

“Any victim of Mr. Clean’s in particular?”

“Barrie Reedy, the boy Mr. Clean abducted before Wayne Ladd. Reedy’s body was found two weeks ago in West Broward. The scene will be the freshest.”

DuCharme flashed a toothy grin. There was a sparkle in his eye that said he thought there was still hope for them. Vick was going to make sure that sparkle was gone when the case was over. Until then, she would just have to suffer.

Taking Vick’s Audi, they drove north on I-95 into Broward, then headed west on Sunrise Boulevard to the overgrown field near the Sawgrass Mills Mall where Reedy’s body had been found. Vick parked on the shoulder, and they both got out.

The afternoon air was moist and still. In the west, black storm clouds filled the horizon, their march toward the city slow and ominous. By early evening, some area of the county would be punished by their fury.

Vick trudged through the tall grass with DuCharme kicking at her heels. Reedy’s body had been found in the middle of the field next to the shopping mall, approximately a hundred yards from the service road. If she remembered correctly, the body had been fresh, and had not started to decompose.

She came to the crime scene and stopped. It was a flat area with knee high grass. A No Dumping sign was posted on a nearby tree, covered in lewd graffiti. Pieces of yellow police tape still lay on the ground, the weeds flattened from the CSI people looking for clues. She rose on her tip-toes and did a slow three-sixty spin, staring.

“What are you looking for?” DuCharme asked.

“The reason Reedy’s body was dumped here,” she replied.

“What do you mean?”

Vick lowered her heels and turned to face him. “Rule one of finding a body. Why was it dumped here? There’s always a reason. Most of the time, it’s the most convenient spot for the killer to use. That’s not the case here. Mr. Clean had to park on the service road, and carry Reedy’s body from his vehicle to this spot. Why did he do that?”

A cigarette had appeared in DuCharme’s mouth, a lit match in his hand. He took a deep drag and shrugged.

“We need to find out,” Vick said. “Let’s start walking the field.”

“What are we looking for?”

“The thing which attracted Mr. Clean to this area.”

Vick took a Kleenex from her purse and wiped the sweat off her brow. Then she put on a pair of shades and started her hunt. DuCharme took off in the opposite direction.

She took fifteen steps and came to a small clearing with soda cans littering the ground. The spot looked like a teenage hangout. Kneeling, she ran her fingers through the grass, and found several cigarette butts and gum wrappers.

She stood up and walked around the clearing. She came to a well-worn trail which led directly back to the Sawgrass Mall on the other side of the field. She guessed this was where teenage workers at the mall came on their break to drink sodas and smoke.

She spent another twenty minutes searching the field, but eventually came back to the hangout spot. It was the only place on the field where there was any sign of human activity. DuCharme soon joined her, his forehead glistening with perspiration.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“You’re standing in it,” Vick replied.

He looked around. “What am I missing?”

“Mr. Clean dumped Reedy’s body near a spot where teenagers hang out. Why did he do that, instead of dumping it someplace else?”

DuCharme had to think for a second.

“He wanted it to be found?” the detective asked.

“Yes. And he got his wish. Reedy was found right away. The question is, was this the first time Mr. Clean did this, or have we found a pattern?”

Back in the car, they poured through the case files of Mr. Clean’s killings of prostitutes. Vick immediately found a number of similarities that had not popped out at her before. The bodies of his victims had been found near well-used areas in Broward County, including several public parks, the Holiday Tennis Center, a half-dozen shopping malls, and several golf courses. Each body had been found in a relatively fresh state, allowing the police to clearly identify what had been done to it. In every case, the body had been discovered by someone who regularly frequented the area.

So what did it all mean? Vick didn’t know. She shut her eyes and basked in the car’s AC, trying to figure it out. Mr. Clean had hidden his victim’s bodies well enough to avoid immediate detection, yet in spots where he knew the bodies would be eventually found, usually within twenty-four hours of having been dumped.

She glanced at DuCharme. He was reading a file, his lips moving silently.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

The detective kept reading for a few seconds more, then shut the file.

“Something’s bothering me,” DuCharme said.

“What?”

“Mr. Clean wanted the police to find his victims, yet he never contacted the police to take responsibility for the killings. That’s not normal, is it?”

Vick blinked. DuCharme was right. Serial killers who killed their victims in public places generally contacted the police or the media and took responsibility. It was how they satisfied their cravings for recognition.

But that wasn’t Mr. Clean’s profile. He’d been killing women for a quarter century, and not once contacted the police, or the media. He was an invisible man.

Vick was wide awake now. There was something else going on here, some other reason why Mr. Clean had dumped the bodies to be found. She turned down the AC and gave DuCharme her best southern smile.

“Good call,” she said. “Now what does it mean?”

DuCharme reached into the backseat and retrieved her thesis on Son of Sam. He opened the report to the section which detailed Son of Sam’s killings, and slapped the pages with his fingers.

“It’s in here, right?” he asked.

“Right,” she said.

“Why don’t you drive, and I’ll read it to you. Maybe you’ll see it.”

“Why should I drive?”

“It was an old trick my partner used to use. When a case was bothering him, he’d drive around town and have me read the case file to him,” DuCharme explained. “There was something about the concentration that it took to drive the car that cleared his head.”

“It worked?”

“Most of the time, yeah.”

Vick was willing to try just about anything at this point. She started the engine and drove down the shoulder of Sunrise Boulevard and merged into traffic. The roads were jammed, and she drove with her eyes glued to the sea of cars.

“Start reading,” she said.

“Okay. Son of Sam’s first tried to kill his victims with a knife. On three different occasions, he stabbed a woman on the streets of New York and ran away. When he saw no mention of the crimes in the newspapers, he assumed the women had survived, and decided to start using a gun.

“He drove to Texas and purchased a Charter Arms.44 pistol and some bullets. He was afraid to buy ammunition in New York because he was afraid the police would somehow track down the shell casings to his residence.

“His first victim was a nineteen-year-old named Donna Lauria. Lauria was sitting in her car with a friend named Jody Valente in front of Lauria’s home at one o’clock in the morning on July 21, 1976. Valentne started to exit the car when Son of Sam approached holding a brown paper bag. He drew a gun from the bag and fired five shots, wounding Valente and killing Lauria. Then he ran away.

“Son of Sam later admitted to the police that killing Lauria and wounding her friend had sexually excited him. For several days after this, he read the newspaper articles in his home while masturbating. It satisfied a need which so far had gone unfulfilled.”

Dark clouds were directly ahead. In her hurry, Vick had driven directly into the storm. It was the last place she wanted to be.

She hit her indicator and tried to get into a turn lane. Heavy drops of rain pelted her windshield. A split-second later, the clouds opened up, and the downpour began.

“Say that last line again,” she said.

DuCharme ran his finger down the page. “It satisfied a need which so far had gone unfulfilled.”

“That’s it.”

Vick hit her horn and started cutting across the lanes of traffic. She came to the intersection and did an illegal U-turn and headed back the way they’d come. DuCharme said nothing, his mouth agape as he watched her drive.

She punched the gas, hoping to outrace the storm. But it was too late; the darkness and rain had already enveloped them. At the next light, she threw her Audi into park.

“Mr. Clean is dropping the bodies in these locations because it satisfies a need,” she explained. “He’s done it with every one of his victims. It’s part of his signature.”

“Is that what links him to Son of Sam?”

“Yes. Now we have to figure out what that need is.”

The light changed. Vick’s car skidded on the wet road as she hit the gas.

“Keep reading,” she told DuCharme.

Chapter 39

Dusk was settling as the Southwest Airlines jet touched down on the runway at Pittsburgh International Airport and the cabin of people broke into applause. The flight had been as rocky as a roller-coaster, and everyone was happy for the safe landing.

Linderman pulled his overnight bag out of the overhead bin. He was one of the few onboard who hadn’t been bothered by the rough conditions. Flying in an airplane was safer than riding in a car, not that you could convince most people of that. The things that people should have been truly frightened of, they rarely were.

Soon he was sitting in a rental on the Avis lot. He’d rented a GPS system, into which he keyed the address of the Crutchfield house. He did not know Pittsburgh, and was going to rely on the GPS to keep him from getting lost.

The interstate was jammed with rush-hour traffic. He inched along, thinking dark thoughts. It had been a brutal day. He’d fantasized killing Crutch in the chapel, imagined seeing Crutch electrocuted at the restaurant, and had visualized Crutch trying to kill his own family at the FBI office in Jax. Evil thoughts had invaded his mind, and would not go away. Kessler had warned him about this, but Linderman hadn’t understood the danger.

Traffic started to move. Soon the city’s gray buildings were behind him, and he was traveling through the hilly suburbs. He had programmed the GPS system so the voice would have a female British accent. It was a nice change, and he let the voice guide him to the Crutchfield home on Morningside Drive in Oakmont.

It was dark when his headlights found the mailbox with the address. It was a remote area with no streetlights, the land heavily forested. He got out of his car to make sure he had the right place. Printed on the side of the mailbox in faint letters was the word CRUTCHFIELD.

He inched his rental down the gravel driveway past a stand of trees. Almost immediately he had to stop. A fallen oak tree lay in his path. He tried to drive around it, only to find there was no room on either side.

He climbed out and tried to move the tree. He managed to get it an inch off the ground, nothing more.

“Damn it.”

He hadn’t come all this way to be stopped by a lousy tree. He opened the trunk and got the flashlight from his garment bag, and checked it to make sure the batteries still worked. They did, and he headed down the driveway by foot.

The walk lifted his spirits. The air was cooler than back home, and there was a refreshing chill in the air. He hadn’t appreciated the cold until he’d moved to Florida to hunt for Danni. Now, the cold was something he dreamed of going back to.

A tall wooden fence greeted him at the driveway’s end. A painted sign had been nailed to the fence. The sign read No Trespassing – This Means You!

He tried to open the gate, and found that it was locked. On either side of the gate was a fence topped with metal spikes. It was growing dark and he probably should have gone back to his car and waited until tomorrow but instead he grabbed the top of the gate with his hand and pulled himself up so he was looking over it.

That was when he saw the house.

It was an old Victorian three-story with a gabled roof and a wraparound front porch with a metal swing. The swing moved eerily back and forth despite there not being a hint of breeze. The front door had criss-crossing boards nailed over it, and pieces of plywood covered the windows. Shingles were missing from the roof and the paint was peeling in large chunks off the front and sides. Not a soul had lived here for years.

He wanted to see more.

It was a bad idea. He didn’t have a search warrant, and would be breaking the law should he step onto the property without one. He believed in the law, and what it stood for. He had never broken the law for the sake of speeding up an investigation.

Until now.

He pulled his head up a few more inches, then threw his leg over the top of the gate. It was a struggle. When the leg did go over, the rest of the body went as well.

He landed on in a heap on the other side. His forty-eight-year-old body had its share of aches and pains, and he spent a moment making sure he hadn’t broken anything. Rising, he dusted himself off, then checked the flashlight. It still worked.

He let the flashlight’s beam guide him toward the house. The state of disrepair grew more evident the closer he got. Stopping on the front path, he shone his light up and down the structure and spotted several birdnests in the rain gutters.

The swing continued its ghostly movement.. With his free hand he grabbed one of the metal chains from which it hung. Only then did it stop.

He cautiously sat down on the swing. To his relief, it did not come crashing down. Shutting off his light, he stared at the encroaching darkness. His friend Jack Carpenter talked about light and darkness as if they were opposing forces, one put on this earth to inspire hope and inspiration, the other an instrument of fear, and death.

A noise snapped his head. It was a woman’s voice, and was high-pitched. He rose from the swing and tried to determine where it had come from.

Then he heard it again. A cry for help, coming from inside the house. There was a boarded window behind the swing. He placed his ear to it, listening.

“Jason, no!” the woman shrieked.

“Shut up, mother!” came the voice of Crutch.

“Oh, my God, Jason, please don’t kill them,” the woman said. “Please.”

“But they’re already dead, mother!”

“You killed my babies! You fucking little bastard.”

“You’re next, mother!”

Linderman pulled his ear away from the plywood. He knew what he was hearing wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real – Crutch was in prison, and not inside the house. Yet it sounded as real as his footsteps on the porch.

He was losing his mind.

He retreated off the porch. His heart was pounding out of control and he was experiencing tunnel vision. He needed to get back to the car and calm down.

He heard a thundering noise and shone his flashlight at the house. The criss-crossing boards were no longer across the front door, and the paint on the house looked fresh and new. The front door banged open, and Crutch emerged with the body of a woman slung over his shoulder.

“Stop!” Linderman said without thinking.

Crutch came down the stairs and hurried across the lawn, the look in his eyes pure savagery. He walked right past Linderman and made his way toward the barn on the other side of the property. Linderman got a look at the woman he was carrying. She was dead, her face bashed in beyond recognition.

“I said stop!” Linderman shouted.

Crutch picked up speed, and disappeared inside the barn. Linderman ran after him, knowing that he was chasing something that was not real.

He halted at the barn’s entranceway. The interior was dark and had a rancid smell. He shone his light inside and saw a center aisle flanked by horse stalls. He entered cautiously and heard a rustling sound from above. He found the rafters with his flashlight and imprisoned several nests of birds in its beam. The mother birds chattered down at him, angry for the intrusion.

He let out a sneeze. A thick veil of dust covered everything inside the barn. It gave him an idea, and he shone his flashlight at the ground. No footprints. It had all been a trick of his imagination, yet he could not shake how real it had seemed.

He walked down the aisle and shone his flashlight into the different stalls. The boards on the walls were falling off, and the stalls looked old and uncared for. No one had been here in a long time.

At the end of the aisle was a wash rack for horses. The floors inside the wash rack were made of concrete, and there were drains to let the water escape. A sheeted object sat in the center of this area. The object was rectangular, and appeared to be some type of furniture. Placing the flashlight in his mouth, he grabbed the sheet and gently pulled it away, causing dust to rise lazily into the air.

The object was a wooden table with four chairs. As if by magic, four women had appeared in the chairs, and were happily chatting away. Crutch stood at the head of the table with a baseball bat in his hand, and raised it over his head.

Linderman dropped the sheet and ran.

Chapter 40

“Keep reading,” Vick said.

“My eyes are tired.”

“Come on – how many pages are left?”

DuCharme flipped through her thesis on Son of Sam. “Two.”

“So finish it.”

“You folks want some more coffee?”

The waitress hovered next to their table with a fresh pot of joe. It was nearing midnight, and the IHOP was empty save for their table, the employees standing by the swinging door to the kitchen, eyeing their watches. The waitress didn’t care; she knew a decent tip when she saw one.

“Sure. Fill ’er up,” DuCharme said.

Vick declined. She was floating on coffee. DuCharme loaded his cup with cream and several packets of white sugar. He ate too much, smoked too much, and had an insatiable sweet tooth. A walking time bomb, she thought.

The coffee brought him around. He picked up the thesis and resumed.

“Here we go. Since his incarceration in Attica State Prison in New York, Son of Sam has proven to be one of the FBI’s best sources for understanding serial killers. Time and again, Son of Sam has allowed FBI profilers to interview him. He has spoken candidly about his upbringing, and the things which led him to kill. Rarely has he held back when discussing his crimes.

“Perhaps Son of Sam’s most interesting revelation came during an interview with FBI profiler Robert Kessler. Kessler interviewed Son of Sam in Attica on three different occasions, and developed a bond with him.

“During one of their sessions, Kessler discovered a scrapbook in Son of Sam’s cell, and asked if he could look through it. Son of Sam happily obliged.

“The scrapbook was filled with grisly news reports of Son of Sam’s crimes. The New York Tabloids were consumed by the Son of Sam killings during the summer of 1978, which became known as the Summer of Sam, and there were hundreds of such articles.

“Kessler flipped through the scrapbook while watching Son of Sam out of the corner of his eye. He’d seen a glean that hadn’t been there before, and frankly asked the serial killer if rereading the articles was a turn-on.

“Kessler was surprised by the answer he received. Son of Sam admitted that on the nights when he couldn’t find a victim, he would drive back to the scenes of his earlier crimes and fantasize over the shooting. Looking at blood stains on the ground was an erotic experience, and he often sat in his car and masturbated. Wow – what a creep.”

“Keep reading,” Vick said.

“In that candid moment, Son of Sam gave law enforcement a valuable tool in understanding and capturing serial killers. Serial killers did indeed return to the scenes of their crimes. Not because of guilt, as writers such as Dostoevsky would have us believe, but because of the sexual nature of the murder. Returning to the scene was a pleasurable experience, and often fulfilled a killer’s cravings for bloodshed.”

“That’s it,” Vick said.

DuCharme put down the thesis. “It is?”

Vick nodded, furious with herself for not seeing it sooner.

She stood on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. DuCharme came out with the thesis tucked under his arm and a sheepish look on his face that said he didn’t understand.

“Mr. Clean is just like Son of Sam,” she explained. “He’s returning to the scene of his crimes, and fantasizing over the corpses. That’s why he’s putting the bodies in places where they can be found. It lets him return to the scene and relive the experience.”

“What is he – a cop?”

She thought back to the botched sting at the RaceTrac. Mr. Clean had vanished from the parking lot without a trace, and as she’d stood in the field and tried to figure out where he’d gone, the solitary wail of a siren had whistled through the still night air.

“No,” she said. “He drives an ambulance.”

They sat in Vick’s car and did a search on her laptop of ambulance companies which serviced Broward County. Six popped up. Vick wrote down their names and addresses on a notepad. She knew there might be more – not every company had a website, or could be found on the Internet – but these six were a good place to start.

She handed the notepad to DuCharme and backed out of her spot.

“What’s the plan?” the detective asked.

“We know that Mr. Clean is Cuban, and that he drives an ambulance for a living,” she said. “We’re going to pay these companies a visit, and see if we can track him down. If we do, we’ll call for backup, and arrest him. Look over that list, and tell me which of those companies is closest.”

DuCharme flipped on the overhead light and went through the list.

“American Medical Services is on Broward Boulevard a few miles from here,” he said. “I’m familiar with them – they’re the biggest EMR service in the area.”

“Sounds like a good place to start.”

American Medical Services was run out of a faceless one-story box in an industrial park. Vick parked in the president’s reserved spot, and they got out and walked up the path. The front door was locked and she hit the buzzer.

Soon they were standing in the dispatch area. A pair of desks and a switchboard were the room’s only furniture. The air was stifling hot and smelled of failed deodorant. A chain-smoking man with brown teeth ended the call he was on to stare at their credentials. A sign on his desk said Please don’t touch me when I’m talking!

“What’s your name?” Vick asked.

“Frank Regli,” the man replied.

“You the dispatcher?” DuCharme asked.

“I’m one of them. How can I help you folks?”

“We need to ask you some questions,” Vick said. “How many ambulance drivers does your company employ?”

Regli scratched the day-old stubble on his chin. “A lot.”

“Please be more specific,” Vick said.

“We have fifty-four drivers the last time I counted. We’re open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and run three eight-hour shifts a day.”

“How many of your drivers are Cuban males?” Vick asked.

“Geeze, that’s a good one. At least twenty guys who drive are Cuban.”

“How many work at night?” DuCharme chimed in.

“They all do,” Regli said. “We alternate the times that they drive.”

“I need for you to print up the names of all your drivers,” Vick said.

“How about if I give you a copy of the payroll sheet. That has the drivers’ names and addressees and social security numbers.”

“That will work,” Vick said.

Outside in the car, Vick and DuCharme poured over the AMR payroll sheet. By culling out the non-Latino names, they were left with exactly twenty drivers.

“This is a lot of names, and it’s only the first ambulance company we’ve called on,” DuCharme said. “What do you want to do?”

Vick’s first thought was to call the FBI’s communication center in D.C., and have them run the twenty names through their criminal data bases to see if any matches popped up. If that didn’t work, the bureau could also cross-reference the names against other data bases, including gun registration information, protective and restraining orders, commercial licenses, etc.

It was a good idea, but not thorough enough. The police and FBI had been hunting for Mr. Clean for a quarter century, and been unable to track him down. More than likely, he didn’t have a criminal record.

But Mr. Clean still might have slipped up. Nearly all criminals did. Vick needed to run the names against the Broward Sheriff’s Department criminal data base, and the Miami/ Dade and Palm Beach police data bases as well. Local police departments did not report misdemeanor arrest information to the FBI, and her gut told her that Mr. Clean had done something that had briefly landed him in hot water.

“We’ll need to get lists of drivers from all six companies, take them back to police headquarters, and run background checks on them,” Vick said. “We’ll check the names against local police data bases and see what pops up. We can also get photographs from the Department of Motor Vehicles, and compare them to our composite of Mr. Clean.”

“That could take all night,” DuCharme said.

“You’ve got something else on your social calendar?”

They spent the next two hours driving around the county visiting the other five ambulance companies on the list. Each company closely resembled AMR, right down to the smelly offices and chain-smoking dispatchers. Soon the number of names of Cuban ambulance drivers was well over a hundred.

At a few minutes past midnight, Vick pulled into the parking lot of the last company on the list, Emergency Medical Services. EMS worked out of a storefront on a quiet street in Sunrise, and she could see a man sitting behind a desk inside a shabby office. It had been a long day, and her energy was ebbing away. She smothered a yawn.

“Why don’t I go in and talk to this guy?” DuCharme suggested. “You look worn out.”

He has a nice side, Vick thought. What a surprise.

“That would be great,” she said.

DuCharme got out of the car and headed up the path. He turned around, and walked around to the driver’s side of the car. Vick lowered her window.

“I just remembered something.” Reaching inside his sports jacket, he removed two folded sheets of fax paper, and handed them to her. “These were in the fax machine tray when I got to work. They’re for you.”

“Thanks, Roger.”

DuCharme walked up the path and entered EMS’s office. He showed the dispatcher his badge, and the dispatcher hung up the phone and smiled nervously. It was the way most people acted when confronted by the police, and she paid it no heed.

Vick turned on the overhead light in her car, and read the cover page of the fax. It was from the company in San Francisco that distributed Swiss Sig bayonets in the United States. Per her request, the company had done a records search of the Swiss Sig bayonet that had killed Jewel Ladd’s boyfriend, and sent her the purchase form.

The purchase order was stapled to the cover page. The typeface was faint, and she held it up to the light. The buyer was Adam Ladd, Wayne’s older brother. It was all there – date, time, amount paid, when the bayonet was shipped, tracking number, everything.

She switched off the light and stared into space. The murder weapon had belonged to Adam, not Wayne. Had Adam talked Wayne into killing the mother’s boyfriend? It made sense, and added fuel to her belief that Wayne had been coaxed into committing this horrible crime.

Hearing a voice, she looked up. DuCharme was coming down the path. The detective had someone with him.

Chapter 41

Renaldo was ready to call it a night.

His shift had been filled with car wrecks with multiple injuries. Normally, he enjoyed looking at the twisted bodies as they were put into his ambulance. But tonight he’d gotten no thrill out of seeing the injured. He was taking tomorrow off, and had a full day planned with Wayne. He needed to go home, and get ready.

Then his cell phone rang. It was an ambulance driver that he knew named Sid.

“You hear the news?” Sid asked, sounding scared.

“What news is that?” Renaldo replied.

“An FBI agent and a sheriff’s detective are visiting the ambulance services, asking for lists of the drivers. I think they’re looking for me.”

“What did you do?”

“My girlfriend put a restraining order on me for beating her up, and I violated it.”

Renaldo ended the call knowing he was in trouble. The FBI did not chase men who slapped around their girlfriends, but they did pursue those who cut people’s heads off. He’d pulled into a fast-food restaurant. He worked with two medics named Harry and Tommy. Harry and Tommy got out of the back of the ambulance, and went inside to get something to eat. They asked him if he wanted anything. Renaldo said no.

Turning on the radio, he dialed through the Spanish-speaking stations until he found one playing traditional rumba music, and turned the volume up high. He’d grown up listening to rumba, and it helped him think.

He had known that this day would eventually come. You could not kill prostitutes for as long as he had, and not expect to get caught. Only fools believed that the police would never find them.

Renaldo was not a fool. He had prepared for this day. Inside his house was a shoe box filled with cash; in his garage, a 4-wheel drive SUV with tags registered in his sister’s name that he renewed every year. His getaway car.

He would flee.

He had a place to escape to – a small, cinder block house in the center of the state, not far from a migrant farm camp where his dark skin blended right in. He’d been visiting that little house for years, stocking up on canned food, installing solar panels and a generator, getting ready for the day when he’d need to get off the grid.

That day had come.

But first he needed to cover his tracks.

The police did not know which ambulance company he worked for. If they had known, they would have already arrested him. The police would have to comb through the lists of drivers, and pick “persons of interest”. Then, they’d winnow those lists down to a few names, and haul those drivers in. That was how the law worked.

It would take time, and time was always on a criminal’s side. He had read that somewhere, and committed it to memory.

He would use that time to facilitate his escape.

His shift ended at midnight. His employer, Emergency Medical Services, was located on a back street in Sunrise. He parked the ambulance in the garage behind the building, and said goodnight to Harry and Tommy. Going inside the main office, he signed the log sheet, and struck up a conversation with Joey, the dispatcher.

“I hear the police have been sniffing around,” Renaldo said.

Joey had a cup of coffee in one hand, a smoldering cigarette in the other, his eyes ringed from lack of sleep. His wife had given birth a few weeks ago, and the baby was keeping the parents up at night.

“Who told you that?” Joey asked.

“A driver from another company called me,” Renaldo said.

“They haven’t been by to see me, I can tell you that. It’s probably nothing.”

“You’re probably right.”

Joey took a call on his cell. Renaldo stepped away from the desk, his mind racing. The police and the FBI had not visited EMS yet. It gave him an idea.

Joey told his wife he’d be home in a few hours, and hung up.

“No one told me having kids was this hard,” Joey said. “You have any kids?”

“A son,” Renaldo replied.

“How old?”

“Seventeen.”

“A teenager, huh. He give you much trouble?”

“No, he’s a good boy.”

“You’re lucky. I hear teenagers are murder.”

“Why don’t you go home, and help your wife? I’ll take over for you.”

Joey perked up. “Seriously? You know how to handle the calls?”

“I’ve subbed before. Go,” Renaldo said.

Joey did not need any more encouragement. He grabbed his cigarettes and cell phone off the desk and was out the door in a flash. Renaldo stood by the window and watched Joey’s car peel out of the lot. He told himself it just might work.

Renaldo went outside. Harry and Tommy’s vehicles were gone. Popping the trunk of his car, he removed the Taurus.410 handgun, and went back inside.

He sat at Joey’s desk, the chair still warm. He placed an upside-down waste basket beneath the desk, and rested the Taurus on top of it, within the reach of his hand. Then he waited for the law to come calling.

Twenty minutes later, a blue Audi drove into the EMS lot and parked. Two shadowy figures sat in the front seats. Renaldo picked up the phone on the desk and pretended to be talking, his eyes glued to the figures.

The passenger door on the Audi opened. A light came on, illuminating the car’s interior. Behind the wheel sat the cute blond FBI agent he’d seen outside the Broward Library. She was very young-looking, and perky. A keeper, he decided.

A man climbed out of the Audi, and headed up the path. The man had a detective’s badge pinned to the pocket of his sports jacket, and had also been outside the library.

Renaldo continued to talk into the dead phone. For the first time, he noticed the framed wedding photograph of Joey and his wife sitting on the desk. If the detective came into the office and saw it, he’d know Renaldo wasn’t the dispatcher.

Renaldo cursed silently to himself.

The detective suddenly turned around, and walked back to the Audi. He gave something to the cute FBI agent, which led to a brief conversation. Renaldo slipped the framed photo into a drawer.

The detective came back up the path. Renaldo detected a slight lift to his step. Did the detective want the FBI agent? It certainly looked that way. Knowing this made her that much more desirable to Renaldo, and strengthened his resolve to possess her.

The detective entered the office. Renaldo said goodbye and hung up the phone.

“Can I help you?” Renaldo said pleasantly.

“I’m Detective DuCharme with the Broward Sheriff’s Department,” his visitor said. “I need to get a list of your ambulance drivers.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I’ll ask the questions, okay?”

“Certainly. I’m happy to help if I can.”

“What’s your name?”

“Joey Gonzalez,” Renaldo replied.

“What do you do here?”

“I’m the dispatcher. My father owns the company.”

“How long have you worked here, Joey?”

“All of my life.”

“How well do you know your employees?”

“Very well.”

“I’m looking for a Cuban ambulance driver who’s been linked to a series of abductions of teenage boys. Two of the boys ended up dead.”

“How horrible.”

“We need to find this guy before he kills again. The driver is in his forties. He’s about my height, and powerfully built. Ring any bells?”

“That description matches several of our drivers. Can you tell me anything else about him?”

“He’s a loner, and probably isn’t married,” the detective said. “He may have gotten into trouble with the law before.”

Renaldo leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. It surprised him that the detective hadn’t asked to see some form of identification, but instead had chosen to take him at his word. The detective was either very tired, or very stupid, Renaldo thought.

“There’s a driver named Renaldo Devine who matches your description,” Renaldo said. “He’s a bit of strange one. Always talking about beating up women.”

Detective DuCharme perked up. “Has he ever been arrested?”

“I don’t know. If he has, he didn’t tell me.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Ever married?”

“No. He has no close friends that I know of.”

“Have you seen Devine recently?”

“He ended his shift a half-hour ago. Said he was going to a bar down the road for a beer. He likes to drink.”

DuCharme smiled knowingly. He’d swallowed the bait whole.

“How about taking us to this bar, and pointing Renaldo out?”

“Us?”

“Me and my partner. She’s in the car outside.”

“Of course. Give me a moment to forward the incoming calls,” Renaldo said.

Renaldo picked up the phone and punched meaningless numbers into the keypad. DuCharme moved to the door and went outside. Renaldo grabbed the Taurus, and followed him.

Together, they walked down the path. Renaldo stayed a few steps back, and dangled the Taurus by his side, letting the detective’s body shield it from the FBI agent sitting behind the wheel of the Audi.

The parking lot had several low wattage halogen lights. Nearing the Audi, Renaldo got a good look at the FBI agent. She was much prettier than he’d thought, and looked remarkably young. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect victim.

DuCharme walked around to the driver’s door. Renaldo stayed glued to the detective, his gun hidden. The FBI agent lowered her window, and poked her head out.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“This is Joey Gonzalez, the dispatcher for EMS,” the detective replied. “You’re not going to believe this, but I think I found Mr. Clean.”

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“Nope. He’s down the road, getting drunk in a bar.”

The detective’s voice was filled with swagger. Trying to impress the FBI agent, Renaldo thought. Lifting his arm, he placed the Taurus to the side of the detective’s head, then paused to look at the FBI agent before pulling the trigger.

Chapter 42

Linderman could not sleep. Each time he started to doze off, he saw Crutch brutally killing his mothers and three sisters, the dream a loop of horror that would not end. It was said that people only dreamed in black and white, yet his dreams were filled with red.

He dragged himself out of bed. He’d rented a room at the Oakmont Hotel three blocks from the Allegheny River. It was small and had paper thin walls. Each time his neighbor flushed the toilet, it sounded like lightening had struck the building.

He ate the remains of a take-out dinner from Outback while watching CNN. The food was cold and tasted like cardboard. He wasn’t hungry, only the scale in the bathroom said that he’d lost five pounds. Looking in the mirror, he’d seen bones where before there had been nothing but skin.

It was not supposed to be like this. The good guys were not supposed to turn into the mad men. Their thoughts, and deeds, were supposed to protect them from that.

Only it hadn’t worked out that way. He was losing it, his thoughts no longer under his control. He wondered what he’d done to deserve such a fate.

Top of the hour, headline news. The lead story was out of Fort Lauderdale. A pretty brunette stood on a sidewalk, clutching a microphone while staring into the camera. Behind her, a riot of swirling lights and police cars blocking the street. He jacked up the volume, knowing something terrible had happened.

“It’s a grisly scene here tonight in Fort Lauderdale,” the reporter intoned. “A little over an hour ago, the police received an anonymous tip that a headless man was sitting behind the wheel of a car in front of a local ambulance service called American Eagle. Upon arriving at the scene, the police discovered the car and the man, whose head was found stuffed in a garbage can. The victim has been identified as homicide Detective Roger DuCharme of the Broward Sheriff’s Department.”

They cut away to a coiffed CNN newscaster sitting in a studio. “Do the police have any suspects in the killing?” the newscaster asked.

“They’re not saying,” the reporter replied, the screen splitting so that both their faces were showing. “We have learned that Detective DuCharme was working on a case involving a serial killer known as Mr. Clean. Whether or not Detective DuCharme’s killing is related to that case remains to be seen.”

“I see activity directly behind you,” the newscaster said. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

The reporter turned around, showing her back to the camera. Across the street, a CSI team was dusting a car for prints and vacuuming the floor mats for fibers. The team wore surgical masks, and looked like doctors performing surgery. Linderman got out of his chair and approached the TV. Kneeling, he brought his face up to the screen. The car the CSI team was checking was a blue Audi.

Vick drove a blue Audi.

He took his cell phone off the night table and called Rachel’s home number. Her voice mail picked up. He tried her cell phone, and got the same message. His next call was to Moody. The sheriff of Broward County answered on the first ring.

“Sheriff Moody here,” a somber voice said.

“This is Ken Linderman. I’m watching a news report on CNN about Roger DuCharme’s murder. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“It was Mr. Clean,” Moody said. “He shot DuCharme and cut his head off. He also got your girl.”

“You mean Vick?”

“Yeah. He left a note in DuCharme’s pocket, boasting about it.”

Linderman brought his hand up to his face and covered his eyes.

“We’re working on a lead,” Moody said. “Vick and DuCharme spent the past few hours visiting different ambulance companies asking for lists of drivers. Since we found Roger in the parking lot of an ambulance company called American Eagle, I’m thinking that Mr. Clean might be on their payroll. I’m going to have all the drivers pulled in, and questioned. Care to join me?”

“I’m in Pittsburgh,” Linderman heard himself say.

“Suit yourself. I’ll let you know what I turn up.”

The phone went dead in his hand.

He threw on his clothes and went outside. The chilly night air stung his face, and he stuck his hands deep into his pockets. He walked down a broken sidewalk, following the roaring sound of the river until he was standing by its edge. The black water was high, and moving along at a powerful clip. He longed to jump in, and let himself be carried away to another place. Just to escape this madness.

He took a step back, and the frightening urge went away.

His thoughts turned to Rachel. He had turned over this investigation to her against his better judgement. His gut had told him that she wasn’t ready, yet he’d gone and done it anyway.

He asked himself why.

It took a while, but then he knew. Rachel wasn’t just an agent who worked for him. She was a substitute for Danni. They were alike in so many ways – young, headstrong, ready to take on the world without truly understanding the consequences. Like Danni, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to help Vick succeed. That was why he’d done it. And now, he was probably never going to see Vick again. Just like Danni.

It was more than Linderman could stand. He buried his face in his hands, and wept.