by James Swain
She wondered why she was thinking these thoughts. She kept little contact with her family, nothing more than a phone call on holidays and birthdays. Her brothers had never stood up for her, and like her father, she had little use for them. So why were her thoughts fixated on them now? Was she afraid she was never going to see them again?
The sweet smell of marijuana drifted into the trunk. Mr. Clean and Wayne were getting high again. Their voices changed, growing louder and more relaxed. There was no mistaking that a bond had formed between them. Mr. Clean liked Wayne, and treated him like a son. Wayne, in turn, was respectful of his captor, and seemed willing to go along with whatever Mr. Clean suggested. They were a team.
Their talk shifted to how they were going to kill Vick, and dispose of her body. She should have been horrified, but surprisingly was not. She had studied enough serial killers to know how the game was played.
“I want you to kill her,” she heard Mr. Clean say.
“Me?” Wayne replied, coughing loudly.
“You fucked her, you get to kill her,” Mr. Clean said.
“Is that how it works?” Wayne asked, still coughing.
“Yes. That’s how it works.”
“Well, if you say so. When?”
“Once it grows dark.”
“Why wait?”
“Because you must always kill at night.”
“Nobody can see you, huh?”
“That’s right. The night is our greatest asset.”
“Whatever you say.” More loud coughing. “Can we get another burger? I’m still hungry.”
Mr. Clean started the engine. They continued to banter during the ride back to the drive-through, their voices not betraying a care or trouble in the world.
Vick shut her eyes, knowing she was doomed.
Chapter 53
Cooper City was a bedroom community in south Broward County, the pleasant, cookie-cutter developments packed together like cookies in a can. The houses were older and more modest here, and dated back to a simpler time.
Renaldo Devine’s ranch house had been built in the sixties, which qualified it for historical preservation by Florida standards. On a dead end street, it had surveillance cameras posted on the four corners of the house. The padlocked gate boasted a multi-lingual No Trespassing sign.
Linderman sat in a police surveillance van across the street, staring at a live feed of the house on a monitor. He had arrived a short while ago, having been whisked from the airport in an unmarked car. Moody sat next to him, wearing a bulletproof vest.
“You look beat,” Moody said. “Sure you’re up for this?”
“I’ll manage,” Linderman said.
“Here. Put these on.”
Moody handed him a pair of headphones. The police had aimed an electronic eavesdropping cone at the house, and Linderman strained to hear any sounds of life coming from inside. A radio was playing a Spanish station, and the television was on.
He pulled off the earphones. “There’s definitely signs of life.”
“That’s what I thought. I think we better move,” Moody said. “You in agreement?”
Linderman nodded. He appreciated the gesture. Moody was in charge, not him, and the sheriff was only asking because he knew that Rachel might be inside.
Moody called the power company on his cell phone.
“Kill the power,” Moody said.
Outside the van, a transformer sitting atop a light pole made a loud popping sound. The power on the street was now down. Moody had effectively knocked out the surveillance cameras around Devine’s house.
“Time’s a wasting,” Moody said.
They got out of the van. It had grown dark, the blackness made more complete by the lack of streetlights. Parked behind them was a mini-bus with darkened windows. Moody banged on the door with his fist. A ten-person SWAT team piled out. Dressed in bulky Kevlar and clutching automatic weapons, they’d painted their faces black, and looked ready for battle.
“Listen up,” Moody said. “Our suspect is holding two people captive inside the house. Saving their lives is our foremost priority. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Let’s go,” Moody said.
The SWAT team jogged across the street with Linderman and Moody behind them. Linderman had worked with SWAT teams before, and had learned that the best tactic was to stay out of their way, and let them do their job.
Upon reaching Devine’s property, the SWAT team spread out on the sidewalk, and aimed their guns through the chainlink fence at the house. One member of the team was holding a pair of bolt cutters. He approached the gate, then suddenly stopped.
“Something wrong?” Moody whispered.
“The gate’s wired,” the man whispered back.
“Don’t worry. There’s no power,” Moody told him.
“I sure hope not,” the man said.
The man cut the padlock, and let it clatter noisily to the ground. The gate swung open on its own accord. The SWAT team swarmed onto the property without making a sound. Half the members circled behind the house, while the rest went up the path.
Devine’s house had a sagging front porch. As the team stepped onto the porch, hidden spotlights on the house came on, their brilliant white light flooding the yard.
“Take those lights out!” Moody yelled.
Linderman stood on the lawn. One of the spotlights had temporarily blinded him. He went into a crouch, and rubbed frantically at his eyes.
One by one, the spotlights were taken out of commission by the SWAT team, the sound of automatic gunfire echoing across the otherwise peaceful neighborhood. It was dark again, only their element of surprise was gone.
“That’s enough,” Moody shouted.
The shooting stopped. Linderman stood up, his vision slowly returning. From the garage came a loud, engine-like noise.
“What’s that noise?” Moody asked.
“A generator,” Linderman said.
The garage door was locked. Linderman knocked out the glass with his Glock and let himself in. He flipped the switch beside the door, and the interior lit up. A battery operated generator sat in the room’s center, rumbling loudly. A thick black cable was attached to the generator, which ran across the floor to the wall and into the house.
Moody was right behind him, followed by half the SWAT team.
“What’s this?” the sheriff asked.
“Devine rigged the generator to the security cameras, which must be battery operated,” Linderman explained. “When the SWAT team stepped on the porch, the security cameras came on, which in turn flipped the generator on.”
“Why?”
“He’s using the power to do something inside the house.”
“Let’s find out what.”
The SWAT team entered the house through the garage. They moved cautiously, fearing the interior might be booby-trapped, and pointed their guns at every shadow.
Linderman brushed past them. There was no vehicle in the garage. Mr. Clean was not here. That was either in their favor, or it wasn’t.
Linderman canvassed the empty rooms until he came to a study. The room was dark, except for the computer. An older model from Gateway, it sat on the desk, it’s screen brightly lit up. The hard drive whirred noisily.
He sat down in front of the computer, and tried to shut it off. When the computer did not respond to his typed commands, he pulled it away from the wall, and attempted to disconnect it from its power source.
“What are you doing?” Moody asked.
“Mr. Clean is erasing his hard drive. That’s what the generator is for. He must have a lot of stuff stored in the memory he doesn’t want us to see.”
“Can you stop it?”
Linderman found the power cord and wrapped his hand around it. The hard drive had stopped whirring, and he knew it was too late. He ripped it out of the wall anyway.
“What do you think was on it?” Moody asked.
“Devine is ego-driven. He probably stores v
ideos of his crimes on his computer, and watched them to get his kicks.”
“Do you think we can retrieve it?”
Crutch had said Mr. Clean was clever. Linderman hadn’t expected this.
“I doubt it,” Linderman said.
One of the SWAT team members appeared at the doorway. “We found a head in the garbage,” he said soberly.
They followed him into the kitchen. The head of an older black man wrapped in plastic bag sat on the counter on a platter. Two other members of the SWAT team stood around the table, staring in morbid fascination. Linderman wanted to warn them of the nightmares they were sure to have, but didn’t think it would do any good.
“Did you find anything else?” Linderman asked.
“This,” another member said, holding up a manila folder. “It was sitting on the microwave.”
Linderman went into the dining area to get away from the head, and spread the folder’s contents onto the table. The words The Program jumped up at him. He had found the instructions on how to make a killing machine.
He poured through the pages, hoping it might reveal what Mr. Clean had done with Rachel and Wayne. It read like an instruction manual to a washing machine, the words dry and to the point. The last page gave him pause.
Step #7: The Killing of the Victim.
The killing of the victim is the culmination of the Program. Certain details must be adhered to in order to avoid failure and disappointment.
Never forget that this is a new experience for the boy. Before this, his killing has been impulsive, and fueled by an uncontrollable rage burning inside of him. This killing will be different, and will be controlled. It must be well-planned, and methodical in its execution. Like a symphony.
The victim you choose is one of personal taste and convenience. Try to pick someone small, who will not give you a hard time. It is important that the boy enjoy himself. A fighting female will not do.
At first, the boy may react negatively to the idea of killing an innocent female. Do not be surprised if this happens, for it is a natural reaction. To prepare him, place him under the influence of alcohol or drugs, so his defenses are down.
The most important aspect of this step is the physical act itself. Study these points, and if possible, memorize them.
* The killing must be violent in nature.
* A knife or bat or even the hands can be used.
* No guns!
* There must be direct physical contact between the boy and victim.
* The boy must help in disposing of the body.
Good luck!
He flipped the last page over. There was writing on the back. A hand drawn calendar, with notations for Step 1 through Step 7 penciled in for different days.
He stared at the date for Step 7.
It was today.
Linderman closed the folder. He told himself to start looking around the house for clues. There had to be a thread here that would tell him where Mr. Clean had gone. A slip of paper in a trash can, or a saved message on the answering machine.
He shook his head. Deep down, he knew it was too late. Mr. Clean was two steps ahead of them. The generator in the garage had shown him that. Vick was a goner.
Linderman felt his shoulders sag as the blackness settled in, its vastness ready to swallow him whole. The day he’d lost Danni had felt like this; the heart-wrenching ache of knowing that no matter what he did, it was probably not going to be enough.
“Linderman.”
Moody entered the dining area, cell phone in hand.
“What’s up?” the FBI agent asked.
“We just got a 911 call from the manager of a McDonald’s in Lauderdale Lakes,” the sheriff replied. “A car came through the drive-through and a teenager threw a bag of garbage out his window. One of the employees picked it up, and found a note. It was written by Wayne Ladd.”
“What?” Linderman said.
“He gave us an address, and asked us to hurry.”
Chapter 54
“Why do you want to dump the body there?” Renaldo asked.
“It’s near my highschool,” Wayne replied.
They sat behind the abandoned shopping center. Dusk had turned to darkness, the hot night air murderously still. Renaldo had lit up another bowl of dope. He took the last hit and banged the pipe out in the ashtray.
“Would you like your friends to see the body?” Renaldo asked.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“It would fuck with their heads, you know? Do you see the movie River’s Edge, where a highschool kid offs his girlfriend and shows off her body to his friends for a few days? That actually happened someplace in New York.”
“Would you like to fuck with your friends’ heads?”
Wayne smiled loosely, his eyelids heavy. He looked ready to fall asleep. “You bet. They’re all assholes. They have cars and nice clothes and are always complaining. It would break them out of their comfort zones, you know?”
Renaldo laughed silently. Wayne wasn’t content to just kill the girl in the trunk; he also wanted to hurt his friends. These were all good signs.
“Where is your highschool?” Renaldo asked.
“In Lauderhill Lakes. Get on 41 and head north.”
Soon they were on the road. Vick had regained consciousness and banged around the trunk. As he drove, Renaldo watched Wayne out of the corner of his eye. The boy was cool with it.
“Tell me more about this movie,” Renaldo said.
“What do you want to know?”
“Did the boy who killed his girlfriend keep her in his bedroom?”
“No. He dumped her body down by the river. That’s why it’s called River’s Edge. His friends took field trips to see her. They acted like they were visiting a haunted house.”
“Like it was a game.”
“Yeah. After I saw the movie, I found a story on the Internet about what really happened. It said half the kids in the highschool knew about the girl’s body, but didn’t tell anybody. The principal who ran the highschool freaked out. He brought in a team of psychiatrists to figure out why nobody reported it.”
“Do you think your friends will report the body when they find it?”
“I think they’ll shit in their pants.” Wayne laughed.
Renaldo laughed as well. He could not remember how long it had been since he’d done that.
They came to Wayne’s highschool, which was named after a dead president. It was surrounded by a fence and flooded with low-wattage halogen lights. Wayne pointed at a grassy field next to the property which abutted the football stadium.
“That’s the spot,” Wayne said. “No one hangs around there at night.”
Renaldo spun the wheel and drove down the two-lane road next to the school. He came to the field and pulled his car up into the grass. A chorus of crickets competed with the hiss of traffic from the nearby highway. A good spot, Renaldo thought. He removed the Taurus from under the seat and got out. Slipping the gun behind his belt, he walked around to the back of the vehicle and found Wayne waiting for him.
“Ready?” Renaldo asked.
“No time like the present,” Wayne said.
Renaldo threw him the keys. “Unlock the trunk.”
Renaldo stepped back and drew his gun. He aimed at the trunk using both hands. Wayne unlocked the trunk and opened it. Vick had rolled onto her side, and was writhing frantically from side to side. Her body grew still, and she shut her eyes.
“Take her out,” Renaldo said.
“You’re not going to help?”
“Do as I tell you.”
Wayne dragged Vick out of the trunk, and made her stand against the car. Renaldo sensed an electricity between them as Wayne touched her.
“Do you want to fuck her again? You can if you want.”
“Not here,” Wayne said.
Renaldo pulled away the carpet covering the spare tire cavity. Lying inside the cavity was a knife, a long piece of chain, and a tire iron.
&n
bsp; “Pick your weapon,” Renaldo said.
Wayne stared into the trunk. “You’re not going to let me shoot her?”
