James Swain - The Program

Vick jumped out of the car and slammed the door. She ran up the steps while pinning her FBI badge to her jacket lapel. The library’s head of security greeted her at the front door. His name was Deputy Murphy, and he had snow white hair and the weary gloss of an older cop. She waited until they were inside an elevator before speaking.

“Tell me what you’ve got,” Vick said.

“We detained four people who were on the library computers using the Internet,” Murphy said. “I spoke to the librarian who monitors the computer area, and she said they were the only patrons on the computers at the time you called.”

“Describe them.”

“Suspect number one is a retired postman in his late-seventies. Number two is an overweight white male in his late teens. Number three, an expectant housewife. Number four, a smart-mouthed teenage girl.”

None of them matched Mr. Clean’s profile. Yet one of them had written the angry post on the web site. Vick needed to find out why. The door parted with a hiss and they got out on the sixth floor.

“Is the teenage girl giving you a lot of crap?” Vick asked.

“She won’t shut up.”

“Cursing?”

“Quite a bit. It took me by surprise. She’s clearly upset about something.”

“That’s the one I’m looking for. Let’s put her in a room by herself. I’m going to grill her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

DuCharme appeared as Vick was preparing to question suspect number four. He was out of breath, and had been searching the building for her. He tried to apologize, and Vick cut him off at the knees.

“You get in trouble every time you open your mouth,” Vick said.

“Look, I’m really…”

“Shut up.”

He nodded compliance. Vick grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The room was windowless, with a round conference table and eight chairs. Plastered on the walls were posters of Dr. Seuss characters promoting National Reading month. A sullen teenage girl sat in a chair at the end of the table. Deputy Murphy stood behind her, his arms crossed.

Vick cleared her throat as she entered the conference room. She heard DuCharme shut the door behind her. That made him good for something.

“Hello,” Vick said. “My name is Special Agent Vick, and I’m with the FBI.”

The girl’s mouth dropped open and panic lit up her eyes. She was the complete package. Luscious face, full bosom, hypnotic eyes, small waist. The kind of girl that boys dreamed about late at night, and fought over in schoolyards. Her clothes were suggestive, and showed cleavage and plenty of well-tanned skin.

“What’s your name?” Vick asked.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” the girl shot back.

Vick came around the desk so fast that the girl pulled back in her chair.

“Answer the question,” Vick said.

“But I haven’t,” the girl said defensively.

“Not cooperating with an FBI agent is a crime, young lady. How would you like to go down to police headquarters with me?”

The girl’s eyes welled with tears, and she shook her head.

“You went onto a police website this morning, and posted some unpleasant things on a blog,” Vick said. “I want to know why. Let’s start by you telling me your name.”

“Amber Spears.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Do you have any ID?”

“No.”

Vick removed a pen and notepad from her purse and placed them on the table. “I want you to write down your name, your address, your home phone number, and both your parents names. While we’re talking, I’m going to have my partner check you out. If I find you’re lying to me, I’ll run you in.”

Amber wrote down her personal information on the notepad. Vick tore off the sheet and crossed the room to where DuCharme slouched against the wall.

“Make yourself useful, and check this out,” Vick said under her breath.

DuCharme left. Vick grabbed a chair and sat facing Amber. The girl’s nostrils were flared, her breathing accelerated. Vick touched her wrist, and Amber lifted her eyes from the floor. Their gazes locked.

“Why did you post that blog? Do you know something about the case?”

“Wayne Ladd’s my boyfriend,” Amber said. “I didn’t like the things the police said about him on their web site. They made Wayne out to be a monster. He never hurt anybody in his life.”

“Wayne Ladd killed his mother’s boyfriend.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did Wayne tell you that?”

Amber let out a sniffle and nodded. She was wearing cheap mascara, and her tears were giving her racoon eyes. Vick took a Kleenex from her purse and gave it to her. Had Amber not been in love, Vick would have told her about the police report that said Wayne had been covered in her mother’s boyfriend’s blood when the police had arrived at the scene, the bayonet still clutched in his hand. Or about the confession he’d made with a lawyer present. Vick would have told her those things, only love blinded people to the truth, and let them see only the things they wished to see.

The door to the conference room opened, and DuCharme stuck his head in.

“She checks out,” he said.

Vick rose from her chair. She’d just raced across town to confront a pissed-off teenager. It angered her as much as DuCharme’s blasting it over the airwaves. She started to leave, and Amber touched her sleeve.

“Wayne didn’t do it,” Amber said.

Vick had had enough of Amber’s denials.

“Then why did he confess?” Vick asked.

“He was protecting her.”

“Who?”

“His mother.”

“You’re saying that Wayne confessed to protect his mother.”

“Yes.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes. I know it’s true.”

“How do you know it’s true?”

“Because Wayne wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s gentle and kind and likes to write songs on the guitar. He’s the sweetest boy in my school. That’s why I love him.”

Vick had read Wayne Ladd’s file. It had been clean except for the boyfriend’s killing. That had bothered her. Boys who killed were usually out of control.

“He’s not a monster,” Amber whispered.

The tears had dried on Amber’s cheeks. In her beautiful eyes was a look of a much older person, of someone with wisdom beyond her years. It took Vick by surprise, then the slow realization of the situation took hold.

Amber was telling the truth.

Binoculars in hand, Renaldo stood on the roof of the elevated parking garage across from the library. Six cruisers and two unmarked Crown Vic sedans were parked by the entrance, the officers standing on the sidewalk with their chests puffed out.

He knew why the police were here. He’d heard the distress call over his scanner. A serial killer named Mr. Clean was inside the library, and every cruiser in the area had been instructed to go there.

He’d never heard of Mr. Clean. Was there another serial killer in Fort Lauderdale that he didn’t know about? Curious, he’d decided to find out.

Going to the computer in his study, he’d typed Mr. Clean into the Yahoo search engine. Yahoo had taken him to the web site of a company that sold household cleaning products. Mr. Clean was the company mascot, a muscle-bound cartoon character dressed in white. The cartoon looked like a cross between a black man and a Latino, or what some called a mulatto.

Then it had hit him. He was Mr. Clean.

It had scared him. Someone must have seen him abduct Wayne Ladd. The police had done up a profile, and given him a cute nickname. Now, they were hunting for him. This was bad.

Then, he’d had a strange thought. If he was Mr. Clean, who was the person inside the library? He’d decided he’d better find out.