James Swain - The Program

“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.

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.