The Program

by James Swain

  Kill him, said the voice inside his head.

  “I’m working on it,” he said aloud.

  Chapter 19

  Eric Drake looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. His right eye was swollen shut, his lips red and busted, and his nose resembled an overcooked blood sausage. The ice pack dripping down the side of his face only added to the gloom.

  Linderman entered the interrogation room inside the Jacksonville Pretrial Detention Facility already knowing what had happened to Drake. Another inmate in the lockup had recognized Drake from Starke Prison, and decided to settle an old score. Drake had come out on the losing end of the exchange.

  Drake’s lawyer sat beside him. His last name was Rucker, which Linderman thought he should change for obvious reasons. Rucker was shaped like a possum, and wore a cheap suit that did not fit him, and sported a haircut that resembled a bird’s nest. Those were not good signs in the criminal defense world.

  Linderman closed the door and leaned against it. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and gave Drake a soul-searching stare.

  “I want to offer you a deal,” the FBI agent said.

  “Can you believe the nerve of this guy?” Drake muttered to his attorney.

  “Hear him out,” Rucker said.

  “This guy shot my brother to death this morning. Then he fucking lied to me, and said my brother had killed an FBI agent. Now he wants to cut me a deal.”

  “Hear him out,” Rucker repeated.

  “Why the hell should I?”

  “He’s holding all the cards, Eric, and you’re holding none. As your attorney, I’d encourage you to listen to whatever he has to say.”

  “You’re not my attorney, Fred, you’re my brother-in-law.”

  “Just shut up and listen to him, Eric. Please. It’s for your own good.”

  Drake said something unintelligible under his breath. The ice pack was leaking down the side of his face and soaking the collar of his orange jumpsuit. He looked more than a little bit afraid. Justice had a way of catching up to people, and paying them back when they were least expecting it. It was payback time for Drake.

  “What’s your deal?” Drake asked.

  “I want you to go back to the prison tonight, and give your contact a bag of cell phones that the FBI will supply you,” Linderman said.

  “What do I get in return?”

  “Play ball, and I’ll ask the prosecutor to drop all charges against you.”

  “You’re yanking my chain.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Rucker grabbed his client’s biceps and gave it a squeeze.

  “Take it,” the attorney whispered.

  “I gotta think about this,” Drake whispered back.

  “Take it, before he changes his mind.”

  “Is this a sting?” Drake asked Linderman.

  “Yes, Eric, it’s a sting.”

  “Who are you setting up?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Drake eyelids flickered. Thinking hard about what he was getting himself into, and the consequences once it played out.

  “I want a new identity and to be put in witness protection,” Drake blurted out.

  “Eric…” the attorney said.

  “Shut up,” Drake said. To Linderman he said, “The inmate I rent the cell phones to is named Thunder. Thunder used to run the Latin Kings down in Miami. When he finds out I set him up, he’ll send a posse to kill me, no questions asked.”

  “I can put you in witness protection,” Linderman said.

  “Do I get to pick the city?”

  “Name it.”

  “Arizona.”

  “Done,” Linderman said.

  “When is this sting going down?”

  “Tonight.”

  “What if Thunder asks about my face? What do I tell him?”

  “Tell him were in a car accident.”

  “I’ll need you to give me a story. I’m no good at lying.”

  “I can give you a story. We can work on it back at your house.”

  “All right. I’m in.”

  Rucker sprang to his feet and stuck out his hand. Linderman shook it, sealing the deal. Drake cleared his throat and said, “Hold on a minute.”

  The tone of Drake’s voice was troubling. Like he was about to drop a bomb on them. Linderman dropped the attorney’s hand and shot Drake a hard stare.

  “What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.

  “If this sting goes sideways, I don’t want to get blamed,” Drake said.

  “Why would it go sideways?”

  “Thunder might find out it’s a sting. He’s a mean sob.”

  “If you handle it right, he won’t know a thing.”

  “It doesn’t matter how I handle it. Thunder still might find out. Other inmates, too.”

  Drake knew something that he wasn’t sharing. Linderman crossed the interrogation room and stopped a foot from Drake’s chair.

  “Explain yourself,” the FBI agent said.

  “I told you this morning that every inmate is allowed to keep five grand in a bank account,” Drake said. “Thunder uses his money to bribe the guards for information. So do a lot of the other inmates. There are no secrets inside Starke Prison.”

  Linderman thought back to Crutch crossing the prison yard while chatting amicably to a guard. It had looked innocent, only now he realized how dangerous it really was.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Linderman said.

  An hour later, Drake was released from the lockup. Linderman was waiting outside the PDF in an unmarked van, which he used to drive Drake back to his house on the south side of town. Vaughn Wood and two field agents followed in a second van. The two vehicles parked in Drake’s driveway behind his pickup truck, and everyone got out.

  Drake entered the house and went to his bedroom to change. The two field agents accompanied him. As was customary with sting operations, Drake would be watched round-the-clock until the sting took place. They didn’t want Drake to get a change of heart, and tip someone off. The only way to prevent that from happening was by bird-dogging Drake, and making sure he didn’t call anyone.

  Linderman sat at the dining room table with a notepad and a pen. He composed a story for Drake to use if Thunder asked him about his busted up face. He tried to keep it simple, in the hopes that Drake would be able to remember it.

  Drake appeared freshly showered and shaved and wearing clean clothes. He sat across from Linderman and drummed the table. Linderman looked up from his writing.

  “Tell me what I’m gonna say tonight if Thunder questions me,” Drake said.

  “Here’s what I came up with.” Linderman looked down at the notepad. “After you left work this morning, you were sitting at an intersection waiting for the light to change when a drunk rammed your pickup from behind. You weren’t wearing a seatbelt, and your face hit the dashboard. The bag of cell phones got ruined, and you had to go to Radio Shack and replace them. That’s your story.”

  “Let me try.”

  Linderman slid the notepad across the table, and Drake recited the story back to him. Coming out his mouth, the words sounded stiff and false. Drake knew it, and slapped his palm on the table.

  “This ain’t gonna work,” he said miserably.

  “Then simplify it,” Linderman suggested. “Tell Thunder you wrecked your car, and the phones got destroyed. Let him figure out the rest.”

  “What if he starts questioning me?”

  “Walk away.”

  “I guess it’s worth a shot,” Drake mumbled.

  Linderman tapped his pen on the table. Drake’s comment that there were no secrets inside Starke Prison had given him food for thought. “Do you know an inmate named Jason Crutchfield? He goes by the nickname Crutch.”

  “Everyone knows Crutch,” Drake said.

  “Does Crutch bribe the guards?”

  “Oh, yeah. Crutch is a big source of cash.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Mostly to
the guards in his cellblock. You know, for information about stuff going on inside the prison. There’s someone else, too.”

  Drake was like a little kid who couldn’t keep a secret. Linderman leaned in.

  “Who’s that?” the FBI agent asked.

  “Alvin Hodges in the records department,” Drake replied. “Crutch pays Alvin so he can get on his computer. Alvin goes out for a smoke, and leaves his computer running so Crutch can surf the Internet.”

  Linderman tossed his pen onto the table. Every rock he flipped over, another snake slithered out. Crutch had a cell phone at his disposal, and unobstructed use of the Internet. Had he been a teenager, he would have been sent to his room, only this was a highly intelligent sociopath. Crutch was as dangerous as a lunatic with a loaded gun.

  He had to handle this carefully. Once he found out why Crutch was talking to Mr. Clean, he would take his toys away from him, and threaten to get several more years added to his prison sentence. He would put the squeeze on Crutch, and scare him into coughing up what he knew about Danni. It wasn’t ethical, but he didn’t care. He was going to find out what Crutch knew about his daughter’s disappearance before he left Starke.

  A loud knock brought Linderman to his feet. He opened the front door to find Woods’s assistant, a freckle-faced, red-haired young woman named Clare, standing on the stoop. Dangling from her hand was a large canvas bag.

  “Good afternoon, Special Agent Linderman,” she said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Clare. Yourself?”

  “Just terrific. I’ve got the six slave phones you requested. The guys in the lab tested them earlier, and the phones work great. There’s a problem with the satellite, but that should be fixed later this afternoon.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Reception issues. The techs assure me it’s no big deal.”

  “Great. Have you gotten a warrant for us to eavesdrop?”

  “Yes. We contacted a judge this morning. It’s all been taken care of.”

  Clare passed him the canvas bag with a big smile on her face. He’d worked with Clare before; nothing seemed to faze her, and everything was either terrific or great.

  “How do I turn on the special chips inside the phones?” he asked.

  “You don’t have to. The chips will come on when the phones are powered up. The technology is brand new. It’s really amazing.”

  Linderman took a slave phone from the bag and pulled off the back cover. The inner workings looked normal. That was good, because he had a feeling that Crutch might get curious and check out the new phone when it was given to him.

  “Thanks for the quick turnaround,” Linderman said. “Please call me when the reception issues have been worked out.”

  “I will. Have a terrific day.”

  He stood in the open door way and watched Clare walk to her car. She stared at different birds and stopped once to watch a pair of squirrels race playfully across a tree limb. She appeared utterly happy and without a care in the world, and he wondered if he’d ever been like that. If he had, he couldn’t remember it.

  He returned to the dining room. Opening the canvas bag, he placed each of the slave phones on the table. Drake stared at them with a dull look on his face.

  “Those the new phones I’m going to deliver?” he asked.

  “That’s right, Eric.”

  “What was she saying about the satellite?”

  “There’s a problem with the reception that’s being fixed.”

  “I sure hope this works.”

  Linderman’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out. It was Rachel. They hadn’t spoken all day, and he walked outside the house for some privacy.

  “Good morning. How’s it going?” Linderman greeted her.

  “I’m going to kill the son-of-a-bitch,” Vick replied.

  Chapter 20

  Vick sat in her Audi with the windows rolled up. Her dumb-ass police sidekick leaned on the hood, blowing smoke rings like a circus clown. His hand had brushed her thigh during the ride over, and she’d nearly punched his lights out.

  “You mean DuCharme?” Linderman asked over the phone.

  “Yes, DuCharme,” Vick said.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I thought we’d caught Mr. Clean on the web site,” Vick explained. “DuCharme called in the cavalry without telling me. His call went out to every cruiser in the county. He referred to Mr. Clean by name, and called him a serial killer. I’m going to have to shut the site down.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Linderman said. “I thought the web site was a good idea.”

  There was a conciliatory tone in Linderman’s voice. He cares how I feel, she thought. It softened the blow, and she felt herself calm down.

  “Are you with DuCharme right now?” Linderman asked.

  “Yes, but he can’t hear me. How are things in Jax?”

  “I’ve had a productive day. Mr. Clean’s contact at the prison is a serial killer named Crutch. I’m setting up a sting that should put a slave phone in Crutch’s hands tonight. There are some reception issues that need to be cleared up. Once they are, I’ll call you.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” Vick said.

  “How’s the rest of your investigation going?”

  “It’s hit a wall.”

  “Don’t give up. Run down every lead, no matter where it takes you. We still don’t know what Mr. Clean’s motive is for abducting these boys.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I also want to make a suggestion. Get rid of DuCharme. I heard a bad story about him before I left.”

  “What did he do?”

  “DuCharme was part of a bust with two vice cops. They were in the suspect’s house making the arrest when the suspect pulled a gun. One of the vice cops shot the suspect, and he died. The Broward cops conducted an internal investigation to make sure everyone’s story matched up. DuCharme and the vice cops were required to turn over their guns to have ballistic tests run on them. Guess what the tests revealed?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “DuCharme’s gun didn’t have a bullet in the chamber when the bust went down.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I wouldn’t kid you, Vick. He’s a menace. Get rid of him.”

  DuCharme hopped off the hood and came up to her door. Vick was afraid he knew they were talking about him, and put on a fake smile.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  She folded her phone and got out of the car.

  “Still angry at me?” DuCharme asked.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Vick said.

  Run down every lead, no matter where it takes you.

  Vick walked up the path with DuCharme on her heels. The single-story house was owned by Wayne Ladd’s mother, Jewel, and had mustard colored walls and old-fashioned jalousie windows. The roof was missing several shingles, and resembled a patchwork quilt. Parked in the car port was an aging Saturn and a bicycle with two flats.

  “I don’t understand why we came here,” DuCharme said.

  “I want to talk to Mrs. Ladd,” Vick replied.

  “But she’s a drunk. I spoke with her yesterday. It was a waste of time.”

  “Please lower your voice.” Vick pressed the front buzzer. Hearing nothing inside, she pulled back the rusty screen door, and rapped on the front door. “Anybody home?”

  “Hold on,” a woman’s voice called from within.

  “I’ll wait,” Vick called back.

  “Probably just crawled out of bed,” DuCharme said.

  “Please stop.”

  “I just don’t get why we’re here, that’s all.”

  “Then I’ll explain. We think Mr. Clean abducted Wayne Ladd because he killed his mother’s boyfriend. Only Wayne’s girlfriend swears that Wayne isn’t the killer, and only confessed to the crime to protect his mother. That’s why we’re here.”