James Swain - The Program

“Sit tight. I’ll be right back,” the tech said.

“What a loser,” DuCharme said when the tech was gone.

“I thought he was kind of cute,” Vick said.

“Is that the kind of guy you like? Young and stupid?”

“Yes. The dumber the better.”

The tech returned with the murder weapon. It was inside a plastic bag and looked like a kid’s toy. Vick removed the bayonet from the bag, and balanced it on her palm.

It was not a toy. Over a foot long, and heavy. Knives could be used for different things, but a bayonet’s purpose was to take human life. It made her think that whoever had given the bayonet to Wayne had expected him to kill with it.

Knowing the bayonet had gone straight through a man’s heart gave Vick pause. She spied a serial number printed on the neck in tiny letters. She’d hit pay dirt.

“I need to examine this,” she said to DuCharme.

“I’ll sign it out,” the detective replied.

DuCharme played with the bayonet while Vick drove to police headquarters. He’d already forgotten about the tech, and hummed softly to himself. She wondered if it was his upbringing or lack of education that made him so unbearable to be around. She thought he might cut himself with the blade, but didn’t say anything.

Back in her temporary office, Vick got on the Internet, and did a Google search for Swiss Sig distributors in the United States. There was only one, located in San Francisco. She went to their web site and scrolled through the pages. There was no phone number, just an email address, and she fired off a letter to the president, asking for his help. In the letter she included the serial number off Wayne’s bayonet, along with her own contact information.

“You done?” DuCharme asked. He sat on the other side of the desk, rattling his car keys. They hadn’t eaten lunch, and he acted hungry.

“Not yet,” Vick replied.

“Soon?”

“Hard to say.”

“Want to get a bite to eat?”

Vick’s cell phone rang, saving her. It was Linderman.

“Hey, Ken,” she answered.

“The reception issue has been cleared up. The sting is on,” Linderman said. “Crutch will be given a slave phone tonight. If he contacts Mr. Clean, the slave phone will tell us the phone number Mr. Clean is using, and his physical location. I want you to get a team of agents to together, and be ready to run him down.”

Vick felt her heartbeat quicken. “Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want the Broward cops to know about this. That includes DuCharme.” He paused. “Is he still working with you?”

“Yes.” Her voice was a monotone.

“Get rid of him right now. That’s an order.”

“Will do.”

“I’m counting on you, Vick. This may be our last chance to catch Mr. Clean.”

“I won’t let you down.”

The call ended without Linderman saying goodbye. Vick folded her phone while looking across the desk. DuCharme had a loopy grin on his face. Rising from her chair, she shut the door, then leaned against the desk and faced him.

“Ready to go?” the detective asked.

“I’ve got some bad news,” she said. “We’re no longer working together.”

He frowned. “Is that what that phone call was about? Someone called, and told you to get rid of me?”

“It’s my decision. I should have told you earlier, at the library. I can’t have you undermining me or questioning my decisions. You’re hurting my investigation.”

“What? You’re too good to be questioned? Is that it?”

“I never said that.”

“We’re supposed to be a team.”

“This is my investigation, not yours.”

“That’s not the way it was explained to me.”

Vick folded her arms. She had said all she was going to say. DuCharme got the hint and abruptly stood up.

“You know what your problem is, Rachel?” He paused, as if expecting a reply.

Vick said nothing.

“You’ve got a crush on Wayne Ladd. He’s young and pretty, and that’s what turns you on. You’ve convinced yourself that he isn’t a killer despite all the evidence, so you’re running around town, trying to prove otherwise. It’s a god damn waste of time.”

Vick didn’t like his tone, or the way he was looking at her.

“Please leave,” she said.

“Are you throwing me out?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got some nerve, little lady.”

Vick nearly slapped him across the face. Instead, she pushed herself off the desk, and walked around him. She jerked open the door.

“Get out,” she said.

DuCharme’s face turned bright red and the veins popped in his neck. His dreams of chatting Vick up over a late lunch had come crashing down on his head. Hustling past her, he walked quickly down the hallway toward the elevators.

“Stupid bitch,” he said loud enough for her to hear.

At a few minutes before midnight, Linderman drove an unmarked FBI van beneath the wooden arch that greeted visitors to Starke Prison. A thunder storm had settled in, and the van skidded on the rain-slicked highway. Drake emitted a nervous laugh.

“Just be my luck to get in a wreck,” the prison guard said.

Linderman glanced at the pair of headlights in his mirror. Wood was following in a second van and had also taken the skid. Wood righted his vehicle and fell in behind him. Up ahead, the lights from the prison blinked like buoys in a turbulent sea.

“Tell me what I’m supposed to say if Thunder asks about my face,” Drake said.

“We just talked about this,” Linderman replied.

“I know, but my memory ain’t for shit. Tell me again.”

“You’re not high, are you?”

“Course not.”

Linderman repeated the story. Drake was a strange bird. His imagination was limited to NASCAR and the sitcoms he watched on TV. John Wayne once said that life was tough, but it was tougher if you were stupid. Drake lived up to that remark.

“Got it,” Drake said “Now explain the deal to me again.”

“We signed papers with your lawyer,” Linderman said. “The deal is done.”

“I know it’s done. I just want to hear it again.”

“Once you deliver the slave phones to Thunder, you’ll walk out of the prison, and get in a van being driven by Special Agent Wood. Wood will drive you to a hotel by the airport where a pair of FBI agents are waiting.”

“A safe house,” Drake said.

“That’s right. You’ll stay in a room with the agents. If we have to use you again, the same procedures will be followed. Once the sting is done, you’ll be put on a plane to Arizona, and enter witness protection.”

“Will there be a car in Arizona for me, and a house?”

“Yes, Eric.”

“I’m gonna need money.”

“We’ll help you find a job. Anything else you want to know?”

“I think I’m good,” Drake said.

Soon they were on prison grounds. Linderman parked and zippered up his rain slicker. They both got out. Drake turned up his collar and headed toward the employee entrance of the prison. He had not gone five steps when Linderman called out to him.

“Your forgot something,” the FBI agent said.

Eyes downcast, Drake retrieved the slave phones from the back seat.

Linderman entered Warden Jenkins’ office at a few minutes past midnight. A dinner tray from the cafeteria sat on the desk, the meat loaf and mashed potatoes hardly touched. Jenkins sat at his desk, staring at his computer.

“You want some dinner?” Jenkins asked.

“I already ate,” Linderman said. “Is the feed on your computer?”

“Yes, sir. Came in a few minutes ago. I’ve never been involved in a sting operation,” Jenkins admitted. “What exactly is going to happen?”

“It’s quite simple. Any call made over the slave phones will be transmitted by satellite to our Jacksonville office. The call will be recorded, and typed up by a stenographer. The text will be sent to your computer for us to see.”