James Swain - The Program

“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.

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.

Linderman went to the window and parted the blinds with his finger. A few hundred yards away, a line of inmates were walking down a wide concrete walkway. He tried to find Jason Crutchfield in the line.

“Give me your camera,” he said to Wood.

Wood passed him the camera. Linderman extended the zoom and had another look. He found Crutch near the back of the line. Their suspect was small in stature, with thinning, neatly parted hair. He wore wide-rimmed glasses which sat perched on the end of his nose like a librarian’s. His orange jumpsuit was spotless, and without creases. He looked about as threatening as an accountant.

Lowering the camera, Linderman glanced at the warden. Jenkins had come in on the coattails of a scandal, and was about to become part of another.

“Ready when you are,” Linderman said.

The three men crossed the prison grounds in one hundred degree heat. There was no breeze, the air dead and still. The prison had no tall buildings that offered an escape into the cool shade. Soon they were dripping sweat.

Two uniformed guards met them at the front door to Crutch’s building.

“Take us to Crutch’s cell,” Jenkins told them.

The guards walked them down a short hallway to an electronically operated door, which had been left open. The door led to a large cellblock.

“Which cell is Crutch’s?” Jenkins asked.

“Last cell on the left,” one of the guards replied.

“Is it open?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay here. Both of you,” Jenkins said.

The guards took their positions outside the cellblock. Linderman entered first. The odor inside the cellblock hit him hard. Shit, piss, desperation, and fear, a combination of odors that no room deodorizer could erase.

“God, is that foul,” Wood said.

Crutch’s cell was at the end of the block. Linderman wondered if corner cells in prison were the same status symbols as corner offices in the outside world. He stopped at the cell door. Small and tidy, the cell contained cardboard shelving units lined with paperback books, music CDs, and an assortment of knick-knacks, including packs of gum, a deck of playing cards, and a stack of index cards wrapped with a rubber band. He removed a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and fitted them on.

“I’ll search, you shoot,” Linderman said.

“Got it,” Wood replied.

Linderman started by taking the sheets off the bed, and checking the mattress and box spring for hidden pockets. They were both clean, and he remade the bed so it looked just like before. Then, he took the index cards off the shelf, removed the rubber band, and dealt them individually onto the bed. Each card was covered in a tiny scribble of writing. He stood back, and let Wood photograph each card, making sure that his counterpart shot them in the same order they’d occupied in the stack.

Next were the paperbacks. Linderman leafed through them to be sure they didn’t contain hollowed out compartments, then laid them out to be photographed. Their subjects ranged from true crime books by Ann Rule, to criminal psychology, to a short story collection by Stephen King entitled Different Seasons. One of the stories, Apt Pupil , had been underlined in several different places.

Then came the CDs. His earlier hunch had been correct: Crutch favored classical music. His shelves were filled with piano works by Bach and Beethoven, sprinkled with early Herbie Hancock. Linderman opened each CD pocket to check on its contents. Satisfied, he laid them on the bed to be photographed.

The last items were the knick-knacks. A tin can filled with buttons, some yarn, a book of stamps, several unused envelopes, and the playing cards. They were not the type of items that typically held clues, but he laid them out anyway.

“What are those?” Wood asked, pointing at the cards.

“Playing cards,” Linderman replied.

“They look like a pack of cigarettes. Take them out of the box. I don’t want to be confused later when I look at the photos.”

Linderman took the cards out of the box and fanned them on the bed. They were dog-eared and worn. Their back design showed a drawing of the state of Florida with a gold shield superimposed over the state. Printed in bold letters inside the shield were the words Florida Association of Crime Stoppers.Below that, a quote from Voltaire: