James Swain - The Program

“You still should have called me,” he said.

Linderman’s rental was baking in the sun behind his motel. He climbed behind the wheel and within seconds was dripping with perspiration. His body refused to adjust to the Florida heat, and he longed for the day that he and Muriel could move back to Virginia.

He called Southwest Airlines and made a reservation on a flight to Fort Lauderdale that afternoon. He was not going to let Vick take the fall for this. She had good instincts and one day would make a fine supervisor. He would take the hit and retire if he had to. He’d put in twenty-five years and would earn a full pension. It was not the swan song he’d envisioned, but life was like that sometimes. As he hung up, another call came in.

“This is Linderman.”

“Warden Jenkins here,” the caller said.

“Hello, warden. How are you this morning?”

“Fair to middling. Are you still in town?”

“Yes. I was just heading to the airport to catch a flight.”

“I have something you need to see. One of the guards just delivered a note to me. It’s from Crutch, and it’s addressed to you.”

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know. Crutch glued it shut on all four corners. I don’t know how he did that, because the inmates aren’t allowed to have adhesive in their cells.”

Or cell phones, Linderman nearly said, but stifled the remark. “Would you mind opening the letter, and reading it to me?”

“By all means.”

There was a short silence as Jenkins put down the phone. He came back on, and cleared his throat. “Here we go. Dear Special Agent Linderman: Although we have never met, I feel like I know you. I’m aware you searched my cell yesterday, and I also know why you came here. You are capable of making my life miserable, while I have the ability to help you, and your cause. Perhaps we should put down our swords, smoke a peace pipe, and talk this over. I am willing to try that approach, but as my mother used to say, it takes two to tango. If you are willing to meet with me, I must put forth one stipulation. Our talk must be in private, with no guards or other employees of the prison present. Trust me when I say you will not be disappointed in what I have to tell you. Sincerely, Crutch. God almighty, can you believe the nerve of this son-of-a-bitch?”

Linderman gazed through his windshield at the parking lot. The heat rising off the concrete made the world look twisted and out of focus. He had talked to serial killers before, and come away each time feeling like a small nick had been cut in his heart. He would lose something talking to Crutch, but had no other choice if he wanted to save Wayne Ladd.

“How soon can you set this up?” he asked.

“You’re going to do it?” Jenkins asked, sounding shocked.

“I don’t have any other choice. Our investigation has hit a brick wall.”

“Didn’t you tape Crutch’s conversation last night? He incriminated himself left and right.”

“The tape is worthless. The audio was bad.” Linderman paused, seeing menacing shapes in the shadows of his motel that had not been there before. He was exhausted, and told himself his mind playing tricks on him. “ I want to do this right now.”

“There will have to be a guard present,” Jenkins said. “We don’t allow one-on-one meetings with inmates under any circumstances. It’s too damn risky.”

“Make an exception.”

“But…”

“Just set it up. Crutch and me.”

“You’re sure you know what you’re doing.”

“Positive. I’ll be there soon.”

Linderman drove to the prison like there was no tomorrow.

Warden Jenkins was still griping when Linderman entered his office and dropped into the chair across from his desk. Jenkins saw something in the FBI agent’s face that told him to stop complaining, so he did, his lips slapping shut.

“Is everything ready?” Linderman asked.

“Crutch is being moved from his cellblock to the prison chapel,” Jenkins said. “Once I get a call from the guards that he’s there, I’ll walk you over.”

“Why the chapel?”

“Crutch requested it. He goes to mass every week. I’m guessing Crutch thinks that we don’t have the chapel bugged or any hidden surveillance cameras inside.”

“Do you?”

Jenkins shook his head.

“Then he’s probably not guessing,” Linderman said. “He probably checked the chapel for bugs and knows that it’s safe. He might even have set up shop there, knowing it’s off-limits to your snooping. He could have weapons hidden inside.”

“Jesus, I never thought of that. What do you want to do?”

“Does your chaplain have an office?”

“He has a study. It’s located next to the chapel in the rear of the building.”

“We’ll do it there. Have your guards remove all sharp objects, including pens, pencils, paper clips, or anything with a sharp edge. Check the furniture to make sure none of the pieces can be screwed off, and used as weapons. Once the chaplain’s study is clear, put Crutch in there.”

“You sure you want to do this?”

“A boy’s life is at stake. I don’t have any choice.”

Jenkins got on the phone and made the necessary preparations. Finished, he hung up, and tried to engage Linderman in conversation. When his guest did not respond, he steepled his hands in front of his face, and let a long minute pass in silence.

“If you don’t mind my saying, you look like hell,” Jenkins said.

Linderman did not respond. He was running on fumes, and needed to save his energy for the prince of darkness. Confronting evil was like warfare, and required every ounce of a person’s resolve.

The phone on Jenkins’ desk lit up. Linderman knew what the call was about before Jenkins picked up the line.

Crutch sat in a folding chair with a pair of guards to either side. One guard was chewing bubble gum, the other had recently eaten onions.

Kill them, said the voice inside his head.

The chaplain’s study had been stripped clean of anything that might be used as a weapon; even the crucifixes on the walls were gone, their images still darkening the plaster. The desk was clean, as were the side tables and coffee cart. A print of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus hung behind the desk, a reproduction from the Basilica of the Nativity, her gaze fixed squarely on the back of Crutch’s head.

The door opened, and Warden Jenkins and Special Agent Ken Linderman entered the study. Crutch knew the second man was Linderman by the crease in his suit and the knot in his tie. His attention to detail was extraordinary. A classic profiler.

One of the guards spoke.

“He’s clean, warden,” the guard said. “We strip-searched him before he left his cell, then searched him again when we got here.”

“Did he touch anything once you brought him into the room?” Linderman asked.

The guard doing the talking hesitated and glanced at his partner. His indecision was his answer.

“Search him again,” Linderman said.

Crutch got out of his chair and stood spread eagle against the desk, playing the good inmate. The guard who hadn’t spoken patted Crutch down and turned his pants pockets inside out, finding nothing. Linderman watched the process carefully.

“Good enough,” the FBI agent said. “You gentleman can go. Thank you.”

The guards shuffled out of the study. Jenkins said, “We’ll be in the hall if you need us,” and followed them, shutting the door behind him.

Crutch returned to his chair, and sat with his hands on his knees. He knew he was being scrutinized, but chose not to stare back, his eyes focused on Linderman’s suit. It was classic Brooks Brothers, the pants having been recut to account for his thin waist, the jacket tailored to accommodate his sidearm. Crutch was fond of nice clothes, and longed for the day he’d again wear pretty things.