The Program

by James Swain

  He watched Vick’s reflection in the computer screen. She started to reply, but bit her lip instead. He who hesitates is lost.

  “Drake must somehow be connected to these crimes,” Vick said. “One of us needs to fly to Jacksonville, and talk with him.”

  “I agree.”

  Another pause. Come on.

  “I think I should stay here, and monitor the web site traffic in case Mr. Clean posts a comment,” Vick said. “Would you feel comfortable interviewing Drake? I know that today is the anniversary of your daughter’s disappearance. I can get another agent to go if you’d rather be home with your wife.”

  Did he want to be home with Muriel, sharing this miserable day? Or would he feel better putting the screws to a suspect, and not thinking about Danni? The answer was as obvious as it was uncomfortable for him to accept, and he rose from his chair.

  “I’ll go,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  He walked out of the office. She met up with him at the bank of elevators, and touched the sleeve of his jacket. The gesture reminded him of Muriel trying to break down his stony resolve, but never quite getting through.

  “I’m sorry, Ken. I know this must be hard.”

  “Thank you, Rachel.”

  An elevator came. He stuck his foot in the door instead of getting on.

  “I have a suggestion to make,” he said. “There’s an ex-cop named Jack Carpenter you should get in touch with. Carpenter once ran the Broward Sheriff Department’s Missing Persons Unit, but got kicked off the force for being an avenging angel. He specializes in tracking abductors. He might have some insights on Mr. Clean.”

  “What kind of insights?” Vick asked.

  The elevator door was trying to eat his foot. He kicked it hard, and sent the door back. “Mr. Clean is treating his victims well for a period of time, then killing them. That doesn’t follow any pattern I’ve ever seen. Maybe Carpenter will know what it means.”

  “How do I find him?”

  “Carpenter keeps an office over a bar in Dania called Tugboat Louie’s. Call the bar, and ask for him. Use my name if you’d like.”

  “You said Carpenter’s an avenging angel. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that term.”

  “It’s someone who believes in justice more than the law.”

  He stepped onto the elevator and hit the button for the ground floor. Vick remained in the hall, looking slightly bewildered. He wondered if he’d cut the cord too soon, and if she’d be lost without his guidance. He watched the door close in her face.

  “I’ll call you once I land in Jacksonville,” he called out.

  “Please,” Vick said.

  Chapter 8

  The sun was setting as Vick pulled into Tugboat Louie’s. The press conference had gone smoothly. DuCharme had managed to talk for five minutes without stepping on his dick. The detective had announced the launching of the web site, and asked the public to help them catch Mr. Clean. It was the right message to be sending out, and Vick felt like she’d done everything she could to set a trap for their killer.

  She crossed the parking lot smelling warm beer. It reminded her of her first weekend in college, when she’d drank so much at a party that she’d passed out. A roommate had told her this was a sign of alcoholism, only Vick had known otherwise. There had been no booze in her house growing up, her father a strict Baptist minister opposed to having fun. Getting shit-faced had been nothing more than a late awakening.

  Louie’s was a madhouse. It was happy hour, and pretty young women were dancing on tables to the jukebox while men in suits wildly clapped their hands. A smiling middle-eastern man wearing a black bow tie and a white cotton shirt greeted her.

  “Some ID, please,” the smiling man said.

  It was not the first time Vick had been carded in a bar. The smiling man examined her credentials as if they might be fake, then handed them back.

  “I’m looking for Jack Carpenter. I called earlier,” Vick said.

  “Ah, yes. I remember you now.” He unhooked a chain in front of a narrow stairwell. “Go upstairs, last door on the right.”

  She glanced into the bar before going up. U2's Joshua Tree was on the jukebox, and the place had gone wild. She tried to imagine herself dancing on a table with her skirt hiked up and a bottle of beer in her hand. Maybe in another lifetime, she thought.

  Upstairs smelled like low tide. The door to Carpenter’s office was ajar, and she rapped lightly on the frame.

  “Come on in,” a man’s voice said.

  She pushed the door open with her foot. Jack the avenging angel stood at the window on the other side of the room, the lights from Louie’s marina dancing on his rugged face. Tall, lean and beach-bum handsome, he wore faded khakis and a Tommy Bahama shirt missing several buttons, his skin as bronzed as a penny.

  “I’m Special Agent Vick. I called earlier,” she said.

  “Is special your first name, or agent?”

  “It’s Rachel.”

  “I’m Jack. Nice to meet you. Make yourself at home.”

  She shut the door behind her. A brown, tailless dog crossed the office and sniffed her shoes. Growing up, she’d owned a dog named King who’d never been allowed inside her house. Many a winter night had been spent on the back porch with King shivering beneath a wool blanket. She petted Carpenter’s dog.

  “Pound pup?” she asked.

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “They respond differently to affection.”

  “You’re very observant. Have a seat.”

  Vick sat in the folding chair in front of Carpenter’s desk. Her eyes fell on the photographs taped to the wall behind the desk. Nine girls, three boys. In the margins were dates written in black magic marker that stretched back ten years. One was of Danni Linderman, her lips spread in a thin Mona Lisa smile. Vick had seen photos of Danni before, but not this one. The resemblance between her and Ken was unnerving. Same high forehead, same mouth, same intelligent eyes. Had Vick not known better, she would have thought they were twins.

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

  Carpenter quizzed her with a glance.

  “Danni Linderman,” she explained.

  “I never think those thoughts,” he said.

  He sounded like one of her instructors at the academy. Until a body is found, you must assume the victim is still alive. She took a deep breath.

  “Perhaps I should explain why I’m here.”

  “Please.”

  “The FBI is chasing a serial killer who’s abducting violent teenage boys, treating them well for a few days, then killing them. He abducted his third victim this morning from a rehab facility in Fort Lauderdale. His patterns don’t match anyone we’ve chased before. I’d like to get your opinion on what his motives might be.”

  “Why are you calling him a serial killer if they are only two victims?”

  “His skill sets match those of another serial killer. He’s also arrogant in the manner in which he disposes of his victims. We’re certain he’s done this many times before.”

  “You mean he’s killed before.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you think the abductions are something new.”

  “That’s our impression, yes.”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did Linderman tell you to come see me, or did you come on your own?”

  His words had a bite to them. Vick folded her hands in her lap.

  “Ken suggested it,” she replied.

  “I’ll tell you why I ask. I’ve talked to plenty of FBI agents. The majority don’t want to hear what I have to say. They come to me for the same reason they go to see psychics. It lets them tell their bosses they left no stones unturned.”

  Vick instantly understood. Carpenter had been burned. She rose and crossed the room so she was standing beside him. “You’ve been in the business from the start.
The FBI got into the business later in the game. You know a lot more than we do.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I figured it out myself. South Florida is ground zero for child abductions. After Adam Walsh was abducted, the boy’s father couldn’t get any satisfaction from the police or the FBI, so he started his own grass roots movement. One of his missions was to get police departments to create special units to hunt for missing kids. The first departments to do that were in South Florida. You ran the Broward unit for fourteen years, and put hundreds of abductors behind bars. You have more experience than the FBI does when it comes to dealing with these people. That’s why I’m here.”

  Carpenter did not respond. Instead he just stared, his eyes boring a hole into her soul. The phone on his desk rang. He answered it, then put the caller on hold.

  “Want a burger?” he asked.

  The question caught Vick off guard. She had thought he might throw her out.

  “Love one,” she said.

  “How do you like it cooked?”

  “Rare.”

  “Two bloody, all the way,” he said into the phone.

  The smiling middle-eastern man entered the office holding a tray with two hamburger plates and a couple of sodas. He served them, placed a bowl of table scraps onto the floor for the dog, and left without uttering a word.

  Carpenter ate his food while reading the case report Vick had brought. The report chronicled Mr. Clean’s crimes, and included grisly crime scene photographs of the first two victims. It was said that a killer was soulless if he could eat a meal after taking someone’s life. The opposite was true in police work. Cops were routinely subjected to photos of killings and death, which most could eat through without a problem.

  Her host finished his meal and the report at the same time. There was a scowl on his face and his eyes betrayed concern. He placed his elbows on his knees and folded his hands beneath his chin. His eyes took on a faraway expression.

  “That bad?” Vick asked.

  “Troubling,” he said.

  The word gave her pause. Jack Carpenter did not impress her as a man who was bothered by much. She put her burger down and wiped her chin with a paper napkin.

  “Please tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.

  “Mr. Clean is not acting like a serial killer. He’s acting like a serial abductor. Serial killers don’t become serial abductors.”

  “They don’t?”

  “Not that I’ve ever seen. They’re two different species of criminals.”

  “What about Ted Bundy and Simon Skell? They were both serial killers who abducted their victims and later killed them.”

  “Bundy and Skell were not serial abductors. Bundy coaxed young women into his car and bludgeoned them to death. The abduction was strictly a mechanism to capture his victim. He was not abducting the girls to keep them.

  “The same was true with Skell. Skell and his gang abducted women from their apartments, took them to Skell’s house, and eventually killed them. The women were kept in dog crates and were not fed. From the moment Skell got his hands on those women, he began to kill them, even though the process took a while.

  “Your abductor is not following that pattern. He’s profiling violent teenage boys, abducting them, and keeping them for an extended period. He’s not torturing them, and appears to be feeding them well. Why he’s killing them is a mystery, but he’s doing it humanely — one shot in the head with a hollow point bullet at close range. Based upon your report, I’d say he’s forming a bond with them.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. It happens with every abduction. The abductor has to care for the victim, and make sure they’re doing okay. As a result, a bond forms. The longer the abduction lasts, the stronger the bond becomes. This never happens with serial killers. They either kill their victims immediately, or kill them slowly. There’s never time for a bond to form.”

  “So what is Mr. Clean? A serial killer, or a serial abductor?”

  “It appears he was a serial killer who’s become a serial abductor.”

  “Have you ever seen that before?”

  “No. That’s why the case is so troubling.”

  Her host rose and went to the window to look down on the marina. She put her finished plate on his desk and joined him. Down below, the party from the bar had spilled out onto the dock, with a gang of drunken revelers forming a Conga line, their bodies bumping and grinding to the loud music. Her desire to join the party had long vanished; all she longed to do now was solve this unnerving case.

  “Why did Mr. Clean change?” Vick asked.

  Carpenter stared at the flat water in the marina. “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s the same person he was all along, and this behavior is an aberration.”

  “That doesn’t explain why he’s abducting violent boys.”

  “Yes, it does. In fact, it’s the answer.”

  Vick bit her lower lip so hard it made her wince. Carpenter was holding back. Not playing a game, but trying to make her think the way he thought.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me,” she said.

  “Mr. Clean is acting out of character. That’s not normal. My guess is, he’s working with a partner who’s calling the shots, and getting him to abduct these boys.”

  Vick thought back to the phone call Mr. Clean had made at the convenience store right before abducting Wayne Ladd.

  “A Svengali,” she said.

  “That’s right. Serial killers can be manipulated, just like everyone else. There’s a second person working with Mr. Clean.”

  “A tag-team,” Vick said.

  “Is that what the FBI calls them?”

  “Yes. One member of a tag-team does the dirty work, while his partner calls the shots. The second person is usually smarter and more manipulating than the first.”

  “I think that’s what you’ve got here. Find the partner, and you’ll discover what Mr. Clean’s motive for abducting violent teenage boys is.”

  Vick’s body tingled with excitement. At this very moment, Ken Linderman was on a plane to Jacksonville, prepared to track down the man controlling Mr. Clean. Rarely did the pieces of a puzzle fit together so neatly. A faint smile formed on her lips.

  Her host turned from the window. His slate-blue eyes were dead, and Vick felt an icy finger run the length of her spine.

  “This is your first time dealing with serial killers, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “Just a guess.”

  Chapter 9

  The Bonnet House was one of Renaldo’s favorite places. A thirty-five acre barrier island off Las Olas, the estate was filled with a variety of exotic animals, including chattering Brazilian squirrel monkeys, raccoons and panthers, the animals freely roaming the grounds. He visited often, and would sit at the base of a mangrove tree, watching the animals eat each other.

  Late at night, when the estate was closed, daring raccoons would scale the walls, and invade the corner of Las Olas Boulevard and A1A, their icy blue eyes shimmering in the dull street lights. They were scavengers, and would tear apart garbage cans looking for food.

  Tourists often fed the raccoons, and let them touch their bodies. Tonight, a brave German stood on the corner with his arms outstretched, and let a family run up and down his body looking for nuts stuffed in his pockets. His wife stood nearby, snapping photos while shrieking with laughter.

  Renaldo stood on the corner across the street. He’d seen tourists feed the raccoons before, and always wondered what would happen if the tourist sneezed, or a car beeped its horn? Would the raccoons become frightened, and bite the tourist? It seemed like the natural reaction to such a situation. His only wish was to be there when it happened.

  A pay phone began to ring. Renaldo looked up and down Las Olas. It was midnight, the streets empty save for the crazy Germans. He picked up the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello, my friend,” the caller said.

&nbs
p; “Hello.”

  “How are you tonight?”

  “I am good.”

  “Was your day productive?”

  “Yes. I have the boy.”

  “Splendid. What is that racket in the background?”