The Program

by James Swain

  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.

  Part III

  The Program

  Chapter 43

  Linderman’s cell phone rang at 6:00 a.m. It was Moody, calling with an update.

  “We started pulling American Eagle’s drivers right after you and I spoke last night,” the sheriff said. “We’re taking them down to headquarters after their shifts end, and interviewing them.”

  Fully dressed, Linderman sat on the edge of the bed in his motel room, facing the boxy TV. He’d stayed up all night watching reruns of Flipper and the old Lucille Ball Show. They were mindless enough to stop him from having any more hallucinations.

  “Anyone stand out?” the FBI agent asked.

  “No, they were all squeaky clean and had air tight alibis. We still have two more shifts of drivers to talk to,” Moody said.

  “You’re interviewing the ambulance drivers a shift at a time? Mr. Clean might catch wind of what’s going on, and run.”

  “I know that,” the sheriff said testily. “American Eagle runs twenty percent of the ambulances in Broward. We couldn’t pull all of the drivers off the streets without jeopardizing innocent people’s lives. So we’re grabbing the drivers when they finish their shifts. It’s not the way I’d prefer doing this, but I didn’t have any other choice.”

  Another setback. Mr. Clean had eluded the law for twenty-five years, and was going to be gone before they got to him. Vick was doomed if he didn’t do something.

  “Between you and me, I got a bad feeling about this,” Moody said.

  “Why? What did you find?” Linderman asked.

  “It’s what we didn’t find. There was no blood in the parking lot at American Eagle, or in Vick’s Audi. We’ve searched the grounds. Nothing.”

  “So DuCharme wasn’t killed in the parking lot where you found him.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you think Mr. Clean purposely dumped DuCharme’s body at American Eagle?”

  “Yes.”

  “So this is all just a smoke screen.”

  “Yes, again. But I still have to interview the American Eagle drivers, just to make sure.”

  Linderman went to the window of his room and parted the curtain. Outside it was gray with a light mist falling. He could hear the frustration in Moody’s voice. There was no worse feeling than knowing you were being set up, and not being able to do anything about it. “Let me tell you why I’m in Pittsburgh,” he said. “There’s an inmate at Starke Prison who knows a lot about Mr. Clean, but won’t share the information with me. I’m trying to find evidence to nail this guy, and make him talk. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

  “Same here. Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  Linderman waited until sunrise to drive to the Crutchfield residence. The air was chilly, and reminded him of a fall Virginia morning. He used to live for days like this, rising early to run on the tender paths in the woods near his home, the sound of fallen leaves crackling beneath his running shoes, his breath misting before his face. He often wondered if he would ever return to that life, or would remain stuck in the brutal heat of South Florida, doing penance for sins beyond his comprehension.

  The tree blocking the driveway was gone, in its place, a police cruiser. A silver-haired officer stood outside the cruiser, having a look around. Linderman parked behind the cruiser and got out. The officer dropped his hand on his gun like Wyatt Earp.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the officer asked.

  “Special Agent Ken Linderman with the FBI.”

  The officer reviewed Linderman’s ID with a sheepish look on his face.

  “Sorry,” he said. “We got a call from a neighbor last night that there was a person trespassing on the Crutchfield property. They sent me out to have a look around.”

  “It sure took you long enough to get here,” Linderman said.

  “They don’t pay me to be brave. Was that you?”

  Linderman nodded.

  “Do you have a warrant to be out here?”

  Linderman shook his head.

  “It’s probably none of my business, but why were you snooping around?”

  “A family was murdered in that house. I know the person who did it. Now I need to find the evidence to prove he did it.”

  “Was it Jason?” the officer asked.

  “Yes. Did you know him?”

  “I went through school with his older sister, Madeline. She talked about Jason. He was a strange one, that’s for sure. You still need a warrant to go on the property.”

  “I don’t have the time to get a warrant,” Linderman said. “One of my agents was abducted by one of Jason’s friends. I need to move fast.”

  The officer blew out his cheeks. He had red cheeks and a round Irish face, and looked well past retirement age. Either he’d lost his life savings in the stock market and had to keep on working, or he really liked his job. Or maybe it was a little of both.

  “My name’s Justin Fitch,” the officer said.

  They shook hands. The look in Fitch’s face said he was going to play ball. He watched Fitch walk to the back of his cruiser and unlock the trunk. Taking out a pair of bolt clippers, he cut through the chain holding the gate shut.

  “Follow me in your car,” Fitch said.

  They parked on the front lawn of the old Victorian house. The swing on the front porch was still moving back and forth, the ghosts occupying it waiting to be set free.

  Linderman followed Fitch up the creaky steps to the front door. He prayed that he did not experience any more hallucinations while in the police officer’s company. It was the last thing he needed to have happen right now.

  Fitch tested the front door. He placed his shoulder against it, and gave a push. The hinges splintered against his weight, the door swinging in.

  “I always figured Jason was up to no good,” Fitch said. “One day during his sophomore year, he came to school and announced that his mother and sisters had moved away to Canada, and left him to fend for himself. It never smelled right.”

  “What kind of family were they?”

  “Quiet. They mostly kept to themselves.”

  They stepped through the front door. The smell hit them like a heavy punch. Dead air, held captive for decades, the rotting essence of life as potent as a toxic cloud. They retreated to the porch and both took deep breaths.

  “Sweet mother of God,” Fitch proclaimed.

  “We need to open the place, and let it air out,” Linderman said.

  “You think there are corpses in there?”

  “Could be.”

  The porch was wraparound, and they walked around to the back of the house, their feet stepping on warped boards. The back door of the house had a small window, and Fitch punched out the glass with his gun, reached inside, and released the lock.

  “You go first,” the officer said.

  Covering his face with a hanky, Linderman walked into a large kitchen, and quickly opened the windows that weren’t stuck. The kitchen had a lived-in feel: A stack of moldy dishes filled the sink, the open cupboards lined with cans of food with peeling labels. On the counter beside the sink sat a platter holding the skeletal remains of an animal that resembled a large chicken. He’d killed them during dinner, Linderman thought.

  Linderman glanced through the open door onto the porch. Fitch was staying outside. Either the officer didn’t want to come in, or was purposely staying out of the way.

  He was starting to gag. He’d read about the long-term effects of breathing bad air. It could cause
your lungs to harden, if you weren’t careful.

  He didn’t care. He needed to find the dining room, and confirm his suspicions that this was indeed where Crutch had ended his mother and sisters’ lives.

  Crossing the kitchen, he pushed open a swinging door with his shoulder, and stuck his head into the next room. It looked like a bomb had gone off inside it. Splintered chairs lay upturned on the floor and several framed paintings had fallen off the walls. There was broken glass everywhere he looked.

  He’d found the dining room.

  Stepping inside, he let the door shut behind him. The dining room table contained four dusty place settings. A round platter sat in the center of the table that was the right size for a cake. He’d waited until his mother had served dessert, Linderman thought.

  He walked around the perimeter of the room, careful not to disturb anything. The walls were filled with gashes and tears. Crutch hadn’t just wanted to kill his family; he’d tried to destroy the room as well. A true rampage.

  He halted by a dusty cabinet in the corner. Something was sticking out from beneath. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he knelt down, and carefully pulled the object out. It was a broken baseball bat.

  He’d found the murder weapon.

  He stood up. An uncontrollable shudder ran through his body. Evil was a strange beast; its presence could be felt long after the animal had left. The dining room was filled with such a presence. Like the spirits outside on the porch, the evil had not left.

  He went outside to the back porch and filled his lungs with sweet-tasting air. The mist had turned into a dull, drenching rain that dulled the landscape to the eye. Fitch leaned against the porch railing, holding his hat in his hands.

  “Find anything?” Fitch asked.

  “Their last meal,” Linderman said.

  “That’s a good start.”

  “And the murder weapon.”

  “Even better. What about the bodies?”

  “That’s next.”

  Linderman took another deep breath before heading back inside.

  Chapter 44

  He checked the upstairs first. There were four bedrooms and one shared bathroom with an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. Each bedroom occupied a different corner of the upstairs, with its own distinct view of the grounds. They shared the same decorating scheme, with wallpaper and furniture coverings straight out of a Laura Ashley catalogue. Each room also contained a four-poster bed and matching antique furniture.

  He was mildly surprised. He’d half-expected to find the bodies of Crutch’s mother and three sisters lying in their beds with their heads bashed in. He’d seen that before with serial killers, a desire to take the victims and return them to some normal setting, as it to separate them from the horrible violence which ended their time on this earth.

  He also checked each of the room’s walk-in closets to make sure the bodies were not hanging from a hook, or the ceiling. He’d seen that as well.

  Walking downstairs, he realized that he’d not seen a boy’s bedroom, and found himself wondering where Crutch had slept.

  The air had cleared enough to breath freely. He checked the den, living room and a small sitting area, but did not find the bodies. The rooms were coated with a thick veil of dust but still remarkably intact, the destruction contained to the dining room.

  The house had to have a basement. In the kitchen he found a door that led down a darkened flight of stairs. Rifling the kitchen drawers, he removed a pack of matches and a box of birthday candles. He lit one of the candles, and headed downstairs.

  A mad scrambling of tiny feet heralded his approach. Rats. Stopping at the bottom, he did a slow three-sixty, and took in his surroundings. The space beneath the house was dank and low-ceilinged. On one wall, a washer and dryer. On the opposite wall, a work area with an assortment of hanging tools, and a shelving unit lined with coffee cans containing rusted nails of varying sizes. Beside the washing machine was a door. The words NO ENTRY — THIS MEANS YOU! was printed across the door in white letters, the handwriting child-like. He’d found Crutch’s bedroom.

  He tested the door and found it locked. He tried kicking it down and got nowhere. He checked the work area for an appropriate tool. The best he could find was a small axe. The candle in his hand had burned down. He used it to light another, then went to work on the door. The wood was old, and fought him every step of the way.

  “Hey, is that you?” Fitch called from the top of the stairs.

  “Yes,” Linderman replied, breathing heavily.

  “You find something?”

  “I think so.”

  “I called a judge I know, and told him I had reason to believe there had been a murder on this property. He’s issuing a search warrant right now.”

  Fitch had just saved him a lot of trouble and headaches.

  “Thank you,” he called up the stairs.

  “No problem. Let me know if I can do anything,” the officer replied.

  “Do you have a flashlight handy?”

  “In my car. You want me to get it?”

  “Please.”

  Soon Fitch came down the stairs shining a megawatt flashlight. He directed the flashlight’s beam at the door without having to be told.

  “You looked kind of funny holding that little candle,” Fitch remarked.

  Linderman smiled grimly. It had occurred to him that he was about to witness something that no profiler within the FBI had ever seen before — the lair of a serial killer as a young boy. Serial killers dark fantasies started at a tender age, and became more violent and disturbing as they grew older and matured. Now, he was going to see the things which had affected young Jason Crutchfield, and led him to kill his family. Had Rachel Vick’s life not hung in the balance, he would have been giddy with excitement.

  Finally the door gave way, and he laid it across the washing machine.

  “You want to go first?” Fitch asked.

  “Please,” Linderman replied.

  Fitch handed Linderman the flashlight.

  “Be my guest,” the officer said.

  The room was not what Linderman had expected. Meticulously neat and tidy, there were no visible signs of a diseased mind. The bed was made, the floor free of trash. The shelves were lined with teenage bric-a-brac, including stacks of baseball cards and a pair of ping pong paddles. The room also had many comforts, including a stereo system, a portable TV set with rabbit ears that sat on an upturned crate, and a small fridge.

  “You see the bodies?” Fitch asked, standing in the doorway.

  “They don’t appear to be here,” Linderman replied.

  “Crap — there’s my phone. Let me take this.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Fitch went upstairs to take the call.

  The closet came next. It was a small space with stone walls. A half dozen denim shirts and several pairs of stone-washed blue jeans hung from a metal pole. There was one navy sports jacket and gray flannel pair of pants that looked like church clothes. It was all terribly normal, with no signs of problems.

  Something wasn’t right here. Crutch hadn’t gone from a normal teenage kid to a serial killer overnight. It had happened over time, the pressure building slowly, until one day he’d erupted like a volcano, and all the anger inside had spilled out.

  He rechecked the bedroom. Jammed in the corner was a desk with a stack of school books. Each book had a paper book cover designed to protect it from use. Written on the cover of the top book were the words SOCIAL STUDIES.

  Linderman opened the book to a random page, and found himself staring at a page with the words The Nine Satanic Statements written across the top. He shut the book, and removed the cover. The Satanic Bible by Anton Szandor Lavey. Crutch had been reading about devil worship when he was supposed to be studying history.

  He removed the paper covers from the rest of the stack, and checked the spines. Each was a book on Satanism and occult worship.

  He put the books back into the stack the way he’d found t
hem. The room would need to be photographed by a CSI exactly as he’d discovered it.

  A book bag lay beneath the desk. It was black and had escaped his attention. He pulled the bag out and opened it. It was filled with spiral notebooks, the words SOCIAL STUDIES, ENGLISH LIT, MATH, SCIENCE written on the covers.

  Crutch’s school notes.

  Diaries and personal writings said more about a person’s mind state of mind than anything else. He was finally going to get to the root of what had driven Crutch over the edge. He started with the notebook that said ENGLISH LIT.