The Program (Jack Carpenter series)

by James Swain

  “I’m not sure what we’ve found,” Wood said.

  He came around the desk. On the screen was one of the index cards from Crutch’s cell. The handwriting had been blown up and was clearly legible. It was a psychological profile of Mr. Hyde, a serial killer who’d terrorized Seattle for over a decade.

  Linderman had profiled Mr. Hyde at Quantico, and knew a great deal about him. Mr. Hyde was a pansexual, and would have sex with any object, man, woman or child. Crutch’s profile contained information he’d never seen before, including intimate details about Mr. Hyde’s abusive childhood, his early sexual experiences, an addiction to pornography and S&M, and the types of violent fantasies that plagued him. Several sentences were underlined, including Lived in attic as a boy and Does not know meaning of love.

  “What did you find on the other index cards?” Linderman asked.

  “There are fifteen index cards in all,” Wood said. “Each contains a detailed profile of a serial killer in the United States who’s still at large. There’s the Gray Man, the Denver Ripper, the Necktie Killer in Boston, and a dozen more.”

  “How about Killer X in Fort Lauderdale?” Linderman asked.

  “Here’s there, too.”

  “Let me see the card.”

  The index card containing Killer X’s profile appeared on Jenkin’s computer. It was as detailed as Mr. Hyde’s, and included facts about Killer X’s upbringing that had eluded law enforcement, including an addiction to bodybuilding and certain men’s grooming products. A line at the bottom of the card caught his eye.

  Can’t get enough of his victims. Just like SOS. Should be easy to find.

  “Jesus Christ,” Wood said. “He was trying to track these guys down, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, and he succeeded with Killer X,” Linderman said. “Let me ask you a question. Did you find any mention on the cards of Wayne Ladd?

  “No,” Wood said.

  “How about Robert Nardelli or Barry Reedy? They were the first two victims.”

  “Nothing about them, either,” Wood said. “So far, we haven’t found any evidence linking Crutch to those crimes.”

  Linderman went to the window and looked down onto the yard. He had traveled to the prison fully expecting to find evidence that would link Crutch to Mr. Clean, and his crimes. Without that proof, he couldn’t move the investigation forward.

  In the distance, he saw the inmates returning to their cellblock. Crutch was in the same position in the rear of the line, chatting amicably with the guard. He still doesn’t know we’re here. It gave Linderman an idea, and he went back to the desk.

  “I want to give Crutch a cell phone tonight,” he said.

  “Why — so he can call this killer again?” Jenkins said.

  “Yes. Crutch doesn’t know we’re on to him. That’s to our advantage. We’ll give him a slave phone, and monitor his calls.”

  “A slave phone?”

  “They’re cell phones equipped with special monitoring chips that are tracked using satellites,” Linderman explained. “It will tell us the phone number of anyone Crutch talks to, and let us eavesdrop on his conversations.”

  “But how will you get the phone to him?” Jenkins asked. “You arrested Drake.”

  “We’ll cut a deal with Drake, and get him to help us.”

  “I’m not partial to giving out passes,” Jenkins said matter-of-factly. “Drake compromised the prison’s security. The son-of-a-bitch deserves to do time.”

  “What’s he looking at — a couple of years in prison?” Linderman argued. “With a decent lawyer, he might end up doing a hundred and eighty days in county. He’s our link to Crutch. We need him on our side.”

  Jenkins scratched his chin in thought. Linderman looked at Wood, and saw the director of the Jacksonville office dip his chin in agreement.

  “What the hell,” Jenkins said. “Let’s do it.”

  Wood called the jail in Jacksonville and spoke to the deputy in charge of booking new prisoners. He cupped his hand over the phone. “Drake’s lawyer showed up a half hour ago. They’re getting his name and number for me.”

  “Good,” Linderman said.

  Wood returned to his call. Linderman pulled Jenkins to the other side of the room, and dropped his voice. “I don’t want Crutch knowing we’ve been here. Can you keep him locked up without arousing any suspicions?”

  “Sure,” Jenkins said. “I’ll keep everyone in his cellblock confined.”

  “Perfect.”

  Jenkins got on his phone, and made arrangements for the inmates in Crutch’s cellblock to remain in their cells for the rest of the day. Linderman felt his spirts rise. The investigation was moving ahead. Now it was a matter of putting a slave phone into Crutch’s hands, and waiting for him to make contact with Mr. Clean.

  He excused himself, and left the room.

  The bathroom was at the hallway’s end. Locking himself inside, he removed Danni’s card from the deck of cold case playing cards, and held it up to the harsh light above the sink. The tiny words written in the margin jumped to life.

  One of Skell’s

  He felt himself shudder. Simon Skell was a notorious serial killer who’d preyed on young women in South Florida before being killed in a manhunt. Linderman had long suspected Skell in his daughter’s abduction, only had never been able to make a link.

  One of Skell’s

  He fanned through the rest of the deck. There was writing in the margins of the other cards, which he held up to the light and read. On each unsolved case, Crutch had written the name of a killer. Like someone playing a game, Crutch had matched the killers to their crimes.

  Next to many of the unsolved cases were questions marks. Linderman guessed these were cases where Crutch wasn’t sure, and had to guess.

  He flipped back to Danni’s card. There was no question mark next to Skell’s name. It was a statement of fact.

  One of Skell’s

  He shuddered again.

  Crutch knew what had happened to Danni.

  Chapter 18

  Crutch stiffened as the cell door closed behind him. A strange smell scented the air. Expensive aftershave, or perhaps cologne. Not something any of the bovine guards would wear. He’d had a visitor.

  His eyes scanned the cell. Things had been touched, the bed remade. He went to the shelves and inventoried his personal items. His deck of cold case playing cards were missing. He stomped his feet and clenched his fists in anger. Those cards were special. He’d been able to match most of the crimes in the deck to specific killers, and make good guesses on the others. It had been fun, and helped pass the time.

  The voice inside his head screamed.

  He went to the cell door. Across the block, a three-hundred pound black inmate named Leon shot him the hundred yard stare. It was a look meant to inspire fear.

  “Yo, peckerwood. Guards take anything from your cell?”

  “They took my playing cards,” Crutch said.

  “They took my tooth brush. How am I gonna brush my fucking teeth?”

  “I’ve got a spare.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Leon was a bad ass, and treated Crutch like dirt. Leon believed the extent of Crutch’s crimes were a single charge of kidnaping and rape. In Leon’s eyes, that made Crutch a nothing, or what the black inmates called a peckerwood.

  Crutch did not have a problem with that. He had not told Leon about the crimes he’d committed. Nor had he told any of the other inmates. Most of the inmates liked to brag about the bad things they’d done. Crutch had done the opposite.

  Crutch had researched hundreds of serial killers during his time in Starke. He knew more about serial killers than anyone alive. When it came to being incarcerated, being a serial killer was no badge of honor. At best, the other inmates shunned you. At worst, they killed you.

  Crutch tossed the spare toothbrush to Leon.

  “Think they’re gonna let us exercise in the yard?” Leon asked. “I hate being cooped up in here.”
/>   “Beats me,” Crutch said.

  Leon put on his headphones. Soon he was riding a wave of rap music. Crutch cupped his hands over his mouth and called down the hall. A steel door slid back, and a pimply-faced guard named Mickey stuck his head in.

  “What do you want?” Mickey asked.

  “I need a favor,” Crutch replied.

  Mickey lumbered into the cellblock. Only twenty-eight, he was so overweight that he had difficulty walking. He stopped at Crutch’s cell door, his body jiggling.

  “What’s up little man?” Mickey asked.

  “I want to know who searched my cell.”

  “One of the guards searched your cell.”

  “It wasn’t one of the guards. It was someone else.”

  “That’s news to me.”

  Everything’s news to you, Crutch nearly said.

  “Can you ask around, and find out for me?”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  Telling Mickey that he wanted something would only increase its eventual price.

  “The usual.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Mickey left the cell, the steel door banging behind him. Crutch heard the static of a walkie-talkie as Mickey called around. Soon, Mickey was back at Crutch’s cell.

  “Who did you piss off?” Mickey asked.

  Crutch feigned innocence and shook his head.

  “It was two FBI agents,” Mickey said solemnly. “The first was Special Agent Vaughn Wood. He’s the director of the FBI’s Jacksonville office.”

  Crutch knew of Wood. He was low level, and not someone who worried him.

  “Who was the second person?” Crutch asked.

  “It’s gonna cost you extra.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so, little man.”

  Crutch gripped the bars at chest height. Mickey was leaning close enough for him to grab him by the head and pull his face into the bars so he could sink his teeth into the carotid artery in his throat. One bite, and fat boy would be doing the death dance.

  “How much?” Crutch asked.

  “Double.”

  Mickey grinned wickedly. The second name was much better than the first. That was why Mickey was putting him through the wringer.

  Kill him, said the voice inside his head.

  “You’ve got a deal,” Crutch said.

  Mickey brought his face closer and dropped his voice. “The second guy in your cell was Special Agent Ken Linderman. He used to be a profiler at Quantico, now runs the CARD unit down in Miami, whatever that is. I hear he’s a big shot.”

  Crutch released the bars and lowered his hands. Ken Linderman had helped capture half the serial killers in the country through his profiling. Now he was on a one-man crusade looking for his precious little daughter. Of all the FBI agents who could have searched his cell, Linderman was the most dangerous.

  “I want the money by tomorrow,” Mickey said.

  Kill him now, the voice said.

  “Of course,” Crutch replied.

  Mickey left, leaving Crutch with his dark thoughts.

  Crutch knew how it worked with the FBI. They could enter any prison at any time, and start giving orders like they owned the place. If Linderman wanted to search his cell again, he would. Next time, Crutch might not be so lucky.

  The surveillance camera in the hall was pointed away from his cell. He lifted up his cot, and unscrewed the right front leg. The people who ran the prison were cheap. When a bed broke, it was repaired in the machine shop instead of being replaced. He wasn’t the only inmate who’d paid to have a hollow leg put on his bed.

  Two items fell out of the hollow leg into his hand. A long piece of steel with a sharpened point — what prisoners called a shiv — and a 16 gigabyte memory stick he’d found on the floor of the records department. No bigger than his thumb, the memory stick held more data than most PCs, and could be plugged into the department’s computers through their USB ports. Stored on the stick was a project which he called The Program. It was the most important thing he owned, and could not fall into the FBI’s hands.

  He returned the shiv to its hiding place. Taking a pack of gum off the bookshelf, he carefully peeled away the plastic, and used it to wrap the memory stick.

  The surveillance camera in the hall was still pointed the wrong way. He dropped his pants and sat on the toilet. Reaching between his legs, he stuck the memory stick up his rectum into his anal cavity. He didn’t imagine the FBI looking there.

  He lay down on his bed, and stared at the ceiling. Several years of research had gone into the Program, and he likened it to doing a doctor’s thesis. It was his life work, and would live on long after he had perished.

  It had all started one day in the mess hall. Another inmate, a professional jewel thief, had told him how he’d been “turned out’ by his father. Crutch had never heard the expression before, and asked what it meant.

  “It’s how you get trained,” the jewel thief had explained. “An older guy takes you under his wing and teaches you the trade, then turns you out into the world.”

  “Like an apprentice,” Crutch said.

  “Exactly. You gotta have young people coming up.”

  The jewel thief was right. Every trade needed new blood. But there was a problem in Crutch’s world. Law enforcement was becoming more adept at catching serial killers. Their ranks were thinning, one killer at a time.

  He’d decided to change that.

  With the memory stick, he’d downloaded hundreds of documents off the Internet, which he’d later studied when he was supposed to be data processing. Written by doctors and psychiatrists, the documents were about the minds of serial killers, and why they killed. He’d compared their findings to his own experiences, and the experiences of other serial killers whom he’d talked to in prison. Over time, he’d begun to see certain patterns and shared experiences. The fantasies that drove serial killers were different, yet originated from the same dark place in the soul. And those fantasies started young.

  Crutch was an engineer by trade, and knew that his research was flawed. The pool he was drawing from was too small to be conclusive. He’d needed more information, only the Internet didn’t have it. He’d decided to hack the FBI’s web site.

  The FBI had more information about serial killers than any other police agency in the world. Their site had hundreds of thousands of criminal case records and hundreds of lengthy reports. These were not clinical dissertations, but gritty accounts from agents assigned to fight monsters. Crutch had gotten his hands on the good stuff.

  By combining the FBI’s information with his own research, he’d written a manual on how to turn out a serial killer. In the first chapter, he’d profiled the kind of teenage boys who were driven into violent fantasy lives. Teens who’d already committed violent acts — or taken a human life … were the best candidates.

  Once the right teen was found, the boy needed to be kept isolated, and subjected to sensory deprivation. The tortures at Gitmo had proven that a person’s defenses could be quickly broken down. Bombarding the teen with pornographic films was one way to accomplish this; playing raucous music another.

  The final phase of the Program was the most important. In it, the teen was made to perform a progression of violent acts while under the influence of drugs and alcohol, culminating in the murder of a young woman. This killing would be the teen’s defining moment, and determine whether he would graduate.

  Crutch had planned to test The Program once he was paroled. But waiting had proven unbearable. He had to know if his thesis was right, so he’d found someone on the outside to help him.

  According to the FBI’s web site, there were fifteen active serial killers in the country. Some were relatively new to the game, while others were old hands. The most intriguing was Killer X, who’d been hacking up prostitutes for twenty-five years. Killer X was getting on in years, and needed to pass the torch. He was the perfect person to test The Program.

  The ne
xt step had been finding Killer X. That part had lasted many months. He had studied Killer X’s victims, and eventually seen a pattern that had eluded the FBI. That pattern had allowed him to identify the type of work Killer X did for a living. Renting a cell phone from one of the other inmates, he’d then tracked Killer X down.

  Their first conversation had lasted several hours. Killer X had sounded tired of killing, yet had confessed that he did not know how to stop. Right then, Crutch had known that Killer X was the right person for the job.