by James Swain
“Splendid. What is that racket in the background?”
“A woman laughing at her husband doing something stupid.”
“What, pray tell?”
“The husband is letting wild raccoons run across his body while she photographs him.”
“Are you in a zoo?”
“No, a public place.”
“How strange. Have you started the boy on the Program?”
“Yes, I started him right away.”
“How has he responded?”
“He hated the first pornographic film I showed him. He said it was sick.”
“That is not a good sign. The films are important. They open doors in the mind.”
“He liked the second film, though.”
“Really. What was it?”
“A hunter chasing a woman through the woods and raping her against a tree. The boy liked that.”
“Did you measure his erection?”
“Yes. It lasted six and a half minutes.”
“Did he still have it after the film was done?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a promising sign. Are you keeping a log of everything that happens?”
“Yes. I am eager to get to the next phase.”
“Don’t be.”
“Why?”
“Each phase is important for the boy’s evolution. Continue to show him the films until he’s ready to move forward. Don’t speed things up.”
Renaldo fell silent. He desperately wanted the Program to work. The first two times he’d tried, it had failed, and he’d had to kill the boys, who he’d grown to like for different reasons. But the new boy showed promise. The new boy had all the right ingredients to make it through the Program, and graduate.
“Still there?” his friend asked.
“Yes.”
“You have done well. I am very proud of you.”
“Thank you.” Renaldo became conscious of the time. It was growing late, and he needed to get back to the house, and check on the boy.
“I need to go,” he said.
“Tomorrow night, same time?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a new number for me to call?”
“Yes. Hold on.”
Renaldo dug out a slip of paper containing the phone number of a payphone at the RaceTrac gas station at the intersection of Sunrise Boulevard and Andrews Avenue. Earlier that day, he’d checked the location, and deemed it safe. He read the phone number to his friend, who repeated it back to him.
“I will talk to you tomorrow night,” Renaldo said.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“The man with the raccoons — is he still there?”
The crazy Germans were going strong. The man had refilled his pockets with nuts and gone back to his crucifix pose, the raccoons racing up and down his arms and legs while his wife leaned against the wall, weak with laughter.
“He’s here,” Renaldo said.
“Do you have a gun with you?”
“Yes, I have one.”
“I would like you to shoot it into the air. Then tell me what happens.”
There was real mischief in his friend’s voice. Renaldo checked for cars, and seeing none, knelt down and drew a .38 special from an ankle holster. Standing, he took another look around before deeming it safe.
“Ready?” he said into the phone.
“By all means.”
He fired a round into the air, the booming sound echoing across the nearby ocean. The shot was followed by a second, equally as loud.
The raccoons reacted as most animals did when hearing gunfire — and savagely bit the German on his arms, legs and face before jumping off, and scampering over the wall. The German fell to the ground in agony, his wife kneeling helplessly by his side.
“Done,” Renaldo said into the phone. “The raccoons ripped him apart.”
“How wonderful,” his friend said.
Chapter 10
The cinder block house shared by Eric and Randy Drake had a crumbling front porch and curtained windows pulled so tight that it was impossible to see inside. The patch of front lawn, flooded from a recent downpour, was gray and sickly.
Linderman sat in an unmarked van across the street, spying through binoculars. With him was Vaughn Wood and two FBI agents wearing bulletproof Kevlar vests and armed with shotguns. Down the street, their backup sat in a second van.
A strung-out man staggered out of the Drake house, and crossed the flooded lawn without seeming to care. He drove away sucking on a glass meth pipe.
“How many is that?” Wood asked.
“Six,” Linderman replied.
“I really want to shut this operation down.”
“Let’s wait until Eric gets here, okay?”
Wood fell silent. It was nearly eight a.m. Eric Drake had finished working the graveyard shift at Starke Prison, and was heading home with a Special Ops chopper on his tail. Linderman had considered arresting Eric as he got off work, but had decided it was better to meet Eric at his house, and question him inside. It would give Linderman the opportunity to look around the house for any incriminating evidence.
Only arresting Eric at home was a risk. His brother Randy was selling crystal meth out of the house, and might give them trouble. Having to deal with Randy was the price they were going to have to pay to nab Eric.
Wood’s cell phone vibrated, and he took the call . “That was the pilot of the Special Ops chopper. Eric Drake is two blocks away,” Wood said.
“Let’s grab him on the lawn,” Linderman said.
Wood called the second van and relayed the plan.
“All set,” he said, hanging up.
Thirty seconds later, a gray Ford pickup rumbled down the street and pulled into the driveway. Eric Drake got out, and stretched his arms in the air. Late thirties, he wore a pea green guard’s uniform, and had thinning hair and a droopy handlebar moustache. He didn’t look menacing, but looks were often deceiving.
Linderman drew a Glock 22 from his belt holster, and held it against his chest. At the same time, Wood drew his sidearm. The two agents in the back were fingering the shotguns in their laps. Both had been drinking coffee and were wired.
“Let’s do it,” Linderman said.
Wood called the second team on his cell phone.
“It’s show time,” Wood said into the phone.
The four men poured out of the van and sprinted across the street. At the same time, the agents in the second van jumped out, and ran toward the house. It was an impressive show of force, designed to instill terror in the heart of the Eric Drake.
It worked. Eric dropped his metal lunch box on the ground, and his eyes went wide with fear.
“FBI. Put your arms in the air,” Linderman said.
Eric threw his arms into the air and blinked several times.
“Against the car,” Linderman said.
Eric hugged the car, his legs spread wide. Linderman patted him down. His suspect was shaking from head to foot.
“Does your brother have a gun?” Linderman asked.
“You mean Randy?” Eric replied. “Yeah, he’s got a couple inside the house.”
“I want you to tell him to come outside and surrender. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Linderman guided Eric down the front path. The other agents stood on the lawn, ankle-deep in water, their weapons trained at the house. Two of the agents were gone, and were covering the back door in case Randy should attempt to escape.
“Talk to your brother,” Linderman ordered.
“Hey, Randy, it’s me,” Eric Drake said, cupping his hands over his mouth. “You need to come outside. Do as I say, man.”
The front door cracked open, and a bloodshot eyeball stared at them.
“What the fuck’s going on? Who are these guys?” Randy Drake shouted.
“It’s the FBI,” Eric replied.
“FBI? You shitting me?”
“No, man. T
hey want to talk to me. Come on outside,” Eric said.
Linderman was surprised. Even though Randy was running a meth lab, Eric knew the FBI was here to see him. It told him that whatever Eric was doing, he’d been doing it for a while, and his conscience was eating at him.
“How do you know it’s not some guys trying to rob us?” Randy asked.
“Randy, listen to me,” his brother pleaded.
“They could have stolen FBI badges and made up phony ID,” Randy said, his voice rising in accusation. “Happens all the time.”
Randy Drake sounded delusional. There was only one way this was going to break, and that was bad. Linderman aimed his Glock at the front door.
“Come outside with your hands up,” Linderman ordered.
“Who are you?” Randy replied.
“Special Agent Ken Linderman. Do as I say — right now!”
“Yes, sir!”
The front door banged open. Randy came onto the porch wearing a pair of bright red underwear and nothing else. He looked like his brother, only fifty pounds heavier. Drool ran down the side of his face, and his tattoo-covered arms cradled a machine- pistol.
“Fuck you, mother-fuckers!”
Randy squeezed a round over their heads. The agents returned the fire, and riddled the porch with gunfire, the bullets tearing shingles off the house. Linderman had a bead on Randy, and shot him in the shoulder and side. The bullets seemingly had no effect, and Randy laughed and slipped back inside, the door slamming shut behind him.
“Shit. He’s a meth tweaker,” Wood said.
Meth tweakers were real-life zombies. Addicted to crystal meth, they often stayed awake for weeks at a time, and did not feel pain. Stories of them being shot multiple times and not stopping were mythical within the FBI. So too were the stories of the widespread destruction they caused, and the innocent lives they took with them.
Eric was handcuffed and locked into one of the vans. Then the team swarmed onto the porch. The front door was kicked down, and they entered single-file. Linderman was the last inside, and found everyone standing in the living room, a small space filled with mis-matched furniture. Randy was not there.
“Let’s search the house,” Wood said.
The FBI did everything by the book. The house was checked using systematic search protocol, with the team going room by room, searching in closets and under beds for their suspect. After each room was checked, one agent remained behind, preventing Randy from back-tracking on them.
Linderman stayed behind in a bedroom. The room had trash on the floors, and looked like a cyclone had hit it. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils.
“I smell fire,” he called out.
He followed the smell down a hall and entered a spacious kitchen in the back of the house. The equipment used to cook crystal meth was on the stove, bubbling away. Kitty litter covered the floor, having been used to soak up spilled chemicals. Randy stood at the sink, shooting through a broken window at the two agents in the backyard.
“Freeze!” Linderman said.
Randy paid him no heed. A bullet penetrated the wall and tore through Randy’s arm, shredding the biceps. It didn’t faze him.
Linderman had to make Randy stop shooting. The combination of the boiling chemicals and gunfire could easily blow the house up, and kill everyone inside. Only Randy was too far gone to be reasoned with.
Having no other option, Linderman shot Randy in the side. It was the third time he’d put a bullet in him. Three shots was usually the charm. The machine pistol fell from Randy’s hands into the sink.
“What the hell,” Randy gasped.
Linderman lowered his gun. He’d shot men before, and the feeling was always the same; revulsion, twinged by the exhilaration that the threat had passed.
Except Randy didn’t go down. He staggered across the kitchen like he was drunk, and grabbed a carving knife off the counter. His eyes were blinking wildly and rolled up once in his head, then snapped back down.
“You’re gonna die,” Randy said.
Linderman’s Glock held fifteen rounds. He had been trained to count his shots when he fired his weapon, and knew that twelve rounds were left in the magazine.
“Stop,” the FBI agent ordered.
Randy charged him with the carving knife. Linderman squeezed the trigger and kept his finger down, the bullets popping Randy at short range. Each shot slowed him down a fraction, but did not halt his forward momentum.
When Randy was six feet away, Linderman put a bullet in his forehead. The look in his eyes said he’d sold his soul to the devil long ago.
Wood entered the kitchen as Linderman was turning off the stove.
“Jesus. How many times did you have to shoot him?” Wood asked.
“Too many.”
“We’ve got a problem. Eric is screaming for a lawyer. Says we had no right coming here without a search warrant. What do you want to do?”
If Eric Drake lawyered up, he’d never find out why he’d been talking to Mr. Clean. He hadn’t come all this way — and risked his life — to let that happen.
“Bring him into the kitchen,” Linderman said.
“You want him to see his brother?”
“Yes. I’m going to do a number on him.”
Linderman opened the kitchen door and walked down a short flight of steps into the backyard. The two FBI agents who’d been exchanging gunfire with Randy had taken up cover and concealment positions behind a rotting wood shed. “All clear,” he called out.
The two agents cautiously emerged from behind the shed. One was a woman, the other a man, their faces wet with fear.
“Is he down?” the female agent asked.
“Down and out,” Linderman replied. “I need your help.”
“Of course,” she said.
Linderman had the female agent lie on the ground on her back, and close her eyes. Next, he had the male agent place his weapon on the ground, and kneel beside her.
“Stay like that for a few minutes,” Linderman said.
“What am I supposed to be doing?” the female agent asked.
“Playing dead.”
Linderman went back inside. Wood had brought Eric Drake into the kitchen. Eric was staring at his brother’s bullet-ridden body lying on the floor. Eric’s hands were handcuffed behind his back and he was silently weeping.
“Why’d you have to shoot him so many times?” Eric said, seeing Linderman. “He didn’t deserve to die like some dog.”
Linderman pulled Eric across the kitchen to the open back door, and pointed at the female FBI agent lying on the ground. “That’s why I shot your brother,” he said.
“Is she dead?”
“Yes. Now, do you still want to call a lawyer, or would you rather make a deal?”
Eric turned away from the door. He was smart enough to know that he could be charged as an accessory to his brother’s crimes, and might spend the rest of his life in prison for killing an FBI agent.
“What do you want from me?” Eric asked.
“I want to know about the calls you’ve been making on your cell phone,” Linderman said. “If you cooperate, we’ll say you weren’t here when the shooting happened.”
“I won’t get charged with this?”
“That’s right.”
“Will Randy get all the blame?”
“Yes, Randy will get all the blame.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes.”
“Let me hear you say it.”
“It’s a promise. Randy will get all the blame for what happened.”
Eric glanced over his shoulder at his brother’s corpse. His look of sorrow had been replaced by outright hostility, and Linderman could only guess at the tortured relationship the two brothers had shared.
“You’ve got a deal,” Eric said.
Chapter 11
Eric sat on a sagging couch in the living room. Linderman sat directly across from their suspect, while Wood stood beside him.
Bot
h FBI agents gave Eric hostile stares. It was an intimidating tactic used during interrogations that often scared suspects into telling the truth.
