by James Swain
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.”
