by James Swain
“Right after he graduated from college, Crutchfield took a job in Raleigh, North Carolina programming computers. I contacted the Raleigh police, and sure enough, the bodies of four women were found in the woods during the time he lived there. The condition of the victims’ bodies were identical to those in Pittsburgh.
“Crutchfield lived in three more cities before eventually settling in Melbourne. I contacted the police in every city, and each time, I scored a hit.”
“How many victims did you find?” Linderman asked.
“Twenty-four. There were four in each city, all women. He was a regular killing machine. On top of that, there’s evidence suggesting he might have done away with his family when he was younger.”
“What happened to his family?”
“I don’t know. They just disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“Why wasn’t any of this in his record?”
“Because the bureau won’t let us put things on the record without proof. I sent a report to the warden at Starke, and told him what I’d found. I also offered to speak in front of the parole board when Crutchfield became eligible. It was all I could do.”
“Did the warden ever contact you?”
“Never heard a peep.”
“I need for you to email me a copy of that report.”
“Of course. Not that it’s any of my business, but what is Crutchfield doing? I spent a lot of time studying this guy, and I’d like to know.”
“He’s in contact with a serial killer in Fort Lauderdale who’s abducting violent teenage boys, and murdering them.”
“A tag team?”
“Yes. We’re calling the other killer Mr. Clean. There’s a videotape of him killing the driver of a van and abducting his latest victim that I can send you.”
“I’d like that.”
The front door of the house opened, and Wood stepped out with a concerned look on his face. Linderman had been gone a while, and he waved to his counterpart. Wood returned the wave and went back inside.
“I’ve got to run,” Linderman said. “Thanks for your help. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“One more question,” Kessler said.
Linderman smiled into the cell. Bob Kessler was famous for asking one more question during investigations, his curiosity insatiable.
“Go ahead.”
“You said Mr. Clean was abducting and killing teenage boys. Crutchfield’s previous victims were all women. What do you think these guys are up to?”
The mosquitoes had returned and were attacking him with abandon. Linderman was sick of the blood on his hands from killing them, and climbed out of the van.
“I don’t know,” he said, “but I’m going to find out.”
Chapter 13
Normally, Linderman would have enjoyed the scenery as he and Wood drove from Jacksonville to Starke Prison, the towering pine trees lining both sides of Highway 301 as beautiful as any he’d ever seen.
But sightseeing was not on today’s agenda. His conversation with Bob Kessler had turned his internal radar up a notch, and with each passing mile, his apprehension grew. Kessler had called Crutchfield the prince of darkness, and told Linderman to be careful. It didn’t matter that Crutchfield was incarcerated in a maximum security prison, or that he passed his days in a nine by twelve cell. Crutchfield was the personification of evil, and as every FBI profiler knew, evil knew no boundaries.
Wood wanted coffee, so they stopped in Starke. The main drag consisted of every fast-food joint you could name and a Baptist church the size of a Wal-Mart. They picked a mom-and-pop, and sat in a secluded booth.
“What do you know about Warden Jenkins?” Linderman asked.
“Jenkins came in on the coattails of a scandal,” Wood replied, blowing steam off his cup. “The last warden got preoccupied running a softball league inside the prison, and was blinded to the fact that the guards were having sex with the female inmates. The place was a regular Sodom and Gomorrah. The local newspaper found out, and blew the lid off of it.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About three years ago.”
“Did Jenkins bring in new people with him?”
“He turned the place upside down. Is that important?”
“Yes. Bob Kessler sent a report to the previous warden telling him that he’d linked twenty-four murders to Jason Crutchfield. I’m guessing that during the transition, Crutchfield used his job in the records department to make that report disappear. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts Jenkins never saw it.”
“So Jenkins has no idea who Crutch is.”
“That would be my guess.”
The journey to Starke Prison was one of straight lines. The two-lane highway leading to the prison was as straight as a shotgun blast, as was the walk from the visitor’s parking lot to the main reception area. The final walk to the red brick administration building was also straight, the rough concrete scraping the FBI agents’ shoes.
Jenkins greeted them with the respectful courtesy befitting federal agents. A pear-shaped Southerner with watery eyes and hair combed straight back, his rumpled white shirt hung off his body like a gunny sack; down its center ran a thin necktie.
Jenkins waved at two stiff-backed chairs in front of his desk. Linderman and Wood sat down and declined his offer of a cold drink.
“After our conversation, I figured you’d come, so I took it upon myself to cancel the prisoners’ yard time today,” Jenkins said. “Crutch is in his cell, as are the other inmates in his building. I was watching him on a surveillance camera when you gentlemen came in.”
“You have surveillance cameras in your cells?” Linderman asked.
“No, afraid we can’t afford that.” Jenkins turned the computer on his desk so the screen faced them. “But we do have cameras in the cellblocks which watch the common areas. The cameras lenses can be electronically shifted to stare into cells. It lets us spy on the inmates if needed.”
Linderman stared at the figure on the screen. Crutch sat on a cot with a pair of earphones on his head, his hands gliding through space like an orchestra leader, his fingers plucking each note out of the air without losing tempo. Linderman sometimes engaged in the same ritual when listening to music, and guessed Crutch was listening to Bach or Beethoven, the music beautiful beyond plight and time.
“Do all your inmates have private cells?” Linderman asked.
“No. The majority live in a barracks,” Jenkins replied. “Crutch asked to be put in a private. Claimed that being small put him at a disadvantage with the other inmates.”
“Is his cell regularly checked?” Wood asked.
“We have over fourteen hundred inmates in this facility. We don’t check cells unless the inmate is a problem.”
“So his cell hasn’t been recently checked,” Wood said.
“That is correct,” Jenkins said stiffly.
“Crutch was paying another inmates two hundred dollars a week to use a cell phone,” Linderman said. “How would he get his hands on that kind of money?”
“Someone probably sent it to him through the Inmate Trust Fund,” the warden replied. “Inmates are allowed to have up to five thousand dollars in their accounts.”
“Does anyone check where the money goes?” Wood asked.
“No.” The crossfire of questions was not to Jenkins’ liking, and he said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what you think Crutch is doing. I realize that talking on a cell phone is against the rules, but the man isn’t a drug dealer, or involved in organized crime. What kind of crimes can he be committing?”
“Jason Crutchfield is a serial killer,” Linderman explained. “He’s communicating to another serial killer who abducted a teenage boy yesterday.”
The blood drained from Jenkins’ face and for a moment he said nothing.
“You’re absolutely positive about this,” the warden muttered.
The two FBI agents nodded stiffly.
“This is just incredible,”
Jenkins said. “Just the other day, I saw Crutch in the chapel. He was in the front row, deep in prayer.”
Linderman wanted to ask Jenkins if he’d overheard who Crutch was praying to, but knew the remark would anger him.
“We need to see the records department where Crutch works,” Linderman said. “Once we’re done there, I want to search his cell.”
Jenkins rose from his chair.
“Follow me,” the warden said.
The basement of the administration building was cold and damp and accessed only by stairs. Jenkins unlocked the door to the records department by punching a five-digit code into the lock. The door swung in, and they entered.
The records department was a low-ceilinged room with beige filing cabinets lining the walls, and three stainless steel desks. Except for a large clock on the wall, the room was void of decoration.
Jenkins flipped on the overhead lights. They were florescent, and painful to the eyes. Linderman stared at the Dell computers sitting on each desk.
“Does Crutch have access to these computers?” Linderman asked.
“Yes, he does,” Jenkins said. “The department’s administrator is in the process of transferring all of the prison’s paper files into the prison’s computer’s data base. Crutch is one of our better data processors.”
“How often is he down here?” Linderman asked.
“Five days a week.”
“Did Crutch have Internet access?”
“No, of course not. Inmates are not allowed to use the Internet.”
“So his computer doesn’t have Internet access,” Wood said.
“That’s right. I just told you that.”
“Do any of the other computers have Internet access?” Linderman asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” the warden said.
“So there’s a chance that one of these other computers has Internet access, and Crutch might have gotten on the Internet by using it,” Wood chimed in.
“Perhaps,” Jenkins said, growing red in the face.
“Please turn the computers on so we can check,” Linderman said.
Jenkins powered up each of the computers. It was obvious Jenkins didn’t like to have his authority challenged, only Linderman saw no other choice. The Internet was a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands. In Nevada, a twisted killer incarcerated in Ely State Prison had managed to track the singer Madonna’s whereabouts by using Google and some old-fashioned ingenuity, and had made her life a living hell until the authorities had figured out what he was up to.
Linderman and Wood watched the computers come to life. One computer had a different screen than the other three, and required a password to enter.
“Whose computer is this?” Linderman asked.
“That belongs to Alvin Hodges, the records department administrator,” Jenkins explained. “He’s off today. His wife is expecting their first child.”
“Do you know the password?” Linderman asked.
“I’m afraid only Alvin does.”
“I need you to call him and get it.”
“But why is that computer important?” Jenkins asked, growing frustrated. “Crutch doesn’t use it. His computer is on the other side of the room.”
“Look at how the desks are situated,” Linderman said. “Crutch can sit at his desk, and spy on Hodges while he’s working on his computer. Crutch may have seen Hodges type in his password. He might be getting on Hodges’ computer when he’s not here, and going onto the Internet.”
“Crutch is only allowed in the records room when Hodges is here,” the warden said. “He can’t get on Hodges’ computer, even if he wanted to.”
“What if Hodges goes to the bathroom, or leaves for a break?” Linderman asked. “That would give Crutch time. I need to get on this computer.”
The warden shook his head and muttered “Very well,” under his breath. He spent the next few minutes tracking down Hodges on the phone, and getting the password from him. Hanging up, he said, “The password is Colette. It was Hodges’ mother’s name.”
“Did his wife have her baby?” Linderman asked.
“Yes. A six pound little boy. They’re both doing fine.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Linderman sat at Hodges’ computer and entered the password into the box on the screen. A screen saver appeared filled with program icons. One was for Windows Internet Explorer. He clicked the mouse over it, and was taken to CNN.com. By clicking the mouse on the down arrow next to the web site’s domain name, a list of web sites recently visited on the computer appeared. The names for two sites appeared. The investment firm of Charles Schwab, and a Jacksonville-based bicycling club.
“Does Hodges like to ride bikes?” Linderman asked.
“It’s his passion,” the warden said.
“I think these two sites are ones he’s visiting,” Linderman said.
“So Crutch isn’t using Hodges’ computer,” the warden said.
“I didn’t say that. Crutch may be using the computer to access the Internet, and then erasing the places where he visits from. It’s not that difficult.”
“Click on Favorites,” Wood suggested. “Maybe Crutch is storing things in there without Hodges knowing.”
Linderman clicked on the Favorite tab. Hodges should have routinely checked his computer to make sure no inmates were using it. Only Crutch had convinced Hodges that he was trustworthy, and Hodges had probably never bothered.
A dozen domain names appeared on the screen. Linderman began to individually check each site. The first five were hardcore pornography, and included bondage and S&M. They were followed by sites called orgish, and rotten.com, which featured videos of death and human disaster, with an emphasis on body parts.
“God Almighty,” Jenkins said under his breath.
The next two sites were fan sites devoted to serial killers. Then came the law enforcement web sites, including the Broward Sheriff’s Department, the Miami-Dade County Police Department, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and the Florida branch of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. These were followed by a site devoted to exposing the torture techniques used on terrorists at Guantanamo Bay.
It all spelled Crutch. Each site was another portal into his sick psyche. But it was the last site that made Linderman sit up straight in his chair.
“Christ Almighty,” Linderman said under his breath.
The last site was the FBI’s criminal data base, the very same site he’d visited that morning. The fact that it took a password to gain access didn’t matter. Crutch was a computer expert, and had probably already hacked it.
“We’ll need for a forensics tech to take this computer apart, and see what other gems we can find,” Linderman said.
“I’ll call over to my office, and get one of our agents on it,” Wood said.
Linderman glanced at Jenkins. The warden’s color had not improved, and he looked like he might get sick.
“I want to see his cell,” Linderman said.
Chapter 14
Linderman explained to Jenkins how he wanted the search done. He did not want Crutch to know that the FBI was looking at his things. Better for him to think that the search was part of something larger taking place inside the prison.
“We can do a weapons search inside his cellblock,” the warden suggested. “Those are not uncommon, and every cell gets checked.”
“Do you ever take things from the cells during these checks?”
“Sometimes.”
“So Crutch won’t be suspicious if we took something from his cell.”
“No, but I’d suggest you also take items from other inmates’ cells,” the warden said. “You know how these guys talk.”
“Where will Crutch be during the search?”
“We’ll put him and the other inmates from his building into the cafeteria.”
“I don’t want Crutch or any other inmate to see us.”
“I can arrange that.”
“Good.
Let’s get it started.”
Linderman and Wood went to the parking lot and retrieved a Canon camera with a zoom lens from the equipment locker in the trunk of Woods’ car. When they returned to Jenkins’ office, the warden had already started the process of moving the inmates from Crutch’s building to the cafeteria on the other side of the prison.
