by James Swain
“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 Cr
utch 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.
