James Swain - The Program

“Food was fine.”

“You hardly touched a thing. Sure you don’t want me to send it back? It’s no problem.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Linderman settled his bill and went outside. He sat for a while in his rental, and tried to get his wits about him. Ten minutes later, he called Vick.

Fucking DuCharme.

He hadn’t been satisfied to appear on local TV, and smear Vick’s reputation. He’d gone the extra mile, and was doing interviews with the talking heads on CNN. Tonight at eight, he’d be chatting with Nancy Grace. He was milking this for all it was worth.

Vick sat in her bathrobe and stared at the TV in her apartment in downtown Miami. Her unit was on the twelfth floor of a towering building built during the real estate craze. Great views, everything brand spanking new, and only a handful of renters. There had been break-ins, with people robbed at gunpoint. She kept a gun in every room.

The commercial break was over, and DuCharme was back. He had to know the world of trouble that Vick was in, yet didn’t seem to care. She’d been placed on paid leave along with the other members of her team from last night’s botched sting. There would be an internal review, plus a hearing where she’d have to face a panel and explain why things had gone so terribly wrong. She’d be lucky to keep her job. Even if she did stay, her career would never be the same.

DuCharme was speaking. She hit the Volume button on the remote.

“The FBI did not handle this right,” the detective said.

“In your opinion, what did the FBI do that was wrong?” the CNN interviewer asked.

“The agent in charge, Rachel Vick, should not have handled the case,” DuCharme replied. “She was infatuated with the kidnaping victim.”

“Did this cloud her judgement?” the interviewer asked.

“Yes, absolutely.”

A photograph of Wayne Ladd appeared on the screen. Wayne was at the beach with his friends, and had his shirt off. He was built like a gymnast, without an ounce of fat, and rock hard abs. It was hard not to be infatuated with him, Vick thought.

DuCharme returned to the screen.

“Will you be taking over the case now that Special Agent Vick has been suspended?” the interviewer asked.

Vick grabbed her slipper off her foot and threw it at the screen. “I wasn’t suspended you fucking morons!”

“Yes,” DuCharme said. “The case is now solely mine.”

“Good luck,” the interviewer said.

Vick stormed into her kitchen. Opening the cabinet, she took out a pile of dinner plates, and began throwing them onto the floor. Her chest was heaving and her heart was racing a hundred miles an hour. She didn’t need a crystal ball to see what was going to happen next. DuCharme would royally screw up the investigation, and Wayne Ladd would end up dead, just like Mr. Clean’s previous victims.

The phone rang. She threw last plate onto the floor and answered it.

“Hello,” she said breathlessly.

“Rachel? This is Ken. You okay?”

“Just great. How about you?”

“It’s been a rough morning. I have a new lead on Mr. Clean for you.”

“I’m off the case. Sitting at home watching myself get crucified on TV.”

“Turn off the TV and get back to work,” Linderman said.

“But I’m off the case.”

“No, you’re not. We’re going to crack this, Rachel.”

“We are?”

“Yes. Take this information I’m about to give you, and figure out who Mr. Clean is. Crutch did, and he’s sitting in a prison.”

“But I’m on leave. I could get fired.”

“No one’s going to fire you. I’ll make sure of that. Crack this puzzle, and you’ll be a hero. There are second acts in the FBI.”

Vick crossed the kitchen hearing the broken plates crack beneath her slippers. She sat down at the breakfast nook and ran her hand through her hair. Had Linderman been standing in the kitchen, she would have thrown her arms around him, and kissed him.

“What’s the information?” she asked.

“In Crutch’s cell were index cards he used to profile fifteen active serial killers. One of them was Mr. Clean. At the bottom of the card he wrote. “Can’t get enough of his victims. Just like SOS’. That led Crutch to figuring out who Mr. Clean was, and contacting him.”

“Was SOS in caps?” Vick asked.

“Yes, matter of fact.”

“Son of Sam.”

She heard Linderman’s gasp.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Positive. David Berkowitz, aka Son of Sam, wrote a number of letters to a New York Post columnist named Jimmy Breslin. He signed the later letters SOS. I wrote a paper about Berkowitz as part of my graduate thesis on serial killers.”

“Why would Crutch write “Just like SOS’ on the cards?”

“There could be a number of reasons. Berkowitz was an arsonist, and set over a thousand fires in Brooklyn and the Bronx. He carried on a lengthy correspondence with the media until his arrest. He also believed his dog was the devil, and was telling him to kill people. His dog’s name was Sam, so he called himself Son of Sam. Crutch must have seen something in Mr. Clean’s crimes that was just like Son of Sam.”

“That’s brilliant, Rachel.”

“Thank you. If we can examine Mr. Clean’s crimes, we should be able to find the link to Son of Sam.”

“I’ve already done that. Got a pencil?”

Vick grabbed a pad and pencil from the shelf next to the nook.

“Ready,” she said.

“Mr. Clean’s victims were female prostitutes between the ages of twenty and thirty. They were raped, then had their throats slit. Their bodies were dumped near public roads or highways. Most of them were Latino or black, but a few were white. None used call services. All of the victims were last seen at night.”

Vick wrote in large, block letters on the notepad. Finished, she placed her pencil down, and stared at the list. “Huh,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.

“I’m not seeing any connection to Son of Sam in this list.”

“Go through it with me.”

“All right. Berkowitz killed young couples sitting in cars, not prostitutes. He used a gun, never a knife. He left his victims in their cars, and never attempted to move their bodies. He often returned to the scene of his killings, and masturbated where the cars had been parked. None of those things resemble what you just told me about Mr. Clean.”

There was a pause as Linderman digested what she’d just said.

“There has to be a link,” he said.

Another pause, this time with Vick doing the thinking.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Berkowitz kept a diary which the police discovered after he was arrested. It was filled with information about what he was thinking at the time of his crimes. I have a transcript on my laptop that I referred to while writing my thesis. I’ll reread it, and try to make a connection to Mr. Clean.”

“I’m counting on you, Rachel. We need to crack this,” Linderman said.

“I’ll do my best. Are you coming back to South Florida?”

“Not yet. I’m going to take another stab at getting Crutch to tell me what he knows. I’m going to break this little bastard.”

Linderman’s ability to extract information from witnesses and suspects was extraordinary, and Vick would have liked to have seen him work over Crutch.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Thanks. I’m going to need some.”

She cleaned up the kitchen floor and took a hot shower. She emerged from the bathroom feeling ready to take on the challenge Linderman had given her.

Every crime had a solution. It came down to knowing what you were looking for, and where to look for it. Vick sat at her dining room table with her laptop and began the tedious process of reading David Berkowitz’s diary.