James Swain - The Program

The transcript was several hundred pages long. Many of the early entries were trivial, and talked about Berkowitz’s dreary, day-to-day existence. The product of an illicit love affair, he’d been raised by foster parents, a situation that had gone well until his foster mother had unexpectedly died. His relationship with his foster father had deteriorated, and he’d begun to fantasize about connecting with his real family, and starting his life anew. He’d finally gotten his wish, only to have his mother and sister reject him. His slide into madness had started soon after that.

A hundred pages into the transcript, the neighbor’s dog started barking orders to Berkowitz, telling him to kill. Berkowitz would later claim that the dog was possessed by a three thousand year old demon. Prison psychiatrists believed that Berkowitz had made up the story to avoid the death chamber. Others were not so sure.

Vick decided to take a break.

She ate a sandwich at the kitchen sink, a habit from living alone. Through the window, she stared at the blight of downtown Miami. The city had been filled with promise when she’d moved in, a happening place with people her age looking for new experiences. The Great Recession had changed that. Construction had come to a screeching halt, and thousands had defaulted on their loans and rent. Downtown was now filled with empty shells of buildings, many of which were occupied by squatters, their campfires burning brightly at night in the empty floors.

Her apartment buzzer rang. The only other person on her floor was a chatty eighty-year-old widow named Mrs. Rosenberg. Mrs. Rosenberg was rarely home during the day, and Vick put down her sandwich and removed a loaded Sig Sauer from the kitchen drawer.

She went to the front door and looked through the peephole. Mrs. Rosenberg stood outside with a sweet smile on her face. Again the buzzer rang.

“Coming,” Vick said.

She stuck the Sig behind her back, and opened the door.

“Hey, Mrs. Rosenberg, how are you?” she asked.

“I’m splendid, Rachel,” her neighbor said. “I was in the lobby waiting for my cab, and this nice man asked me to let him in. He said he knew you, so of course I did.”

Mrs. Rosenberg giggled, no doubt thinking she was playing cupid. Vick stuck her head out, and saw the nice man standing in the hall, his eyes downcast.

It was fucking DuCharme.

Mrs. Rosenberg giggled into her hand. “Well, I suppose I must be going. I’m sure you two young people have lots of talk about.”

“We certainly do,” Vick said. “Would you like Roger to escort you downstairs?”

“No, I need to get something from my apartment. Thank you, anyway.”

DuCharme walked Mrs. Rosenberg to her door across the hallway. When the detective returned to Vick’s door, she showed him the Sig.

“Is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?” DuCharme asked.

“Go fuck yourself,” Vick replied.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Send me an email. And don’t ever come into this apartment house unannounced again.”

DuCharme let out a deep, exaggerated breath. He was not the same man she’d seen on CNN earlier that day. His necktie was undone, the knot hanging halfway down his shirt like a hangman’s knot, his eyes watery and red. His silk sports jacket, so perfect for the television cameras, had not held up in the South Florida humidity, and had more creases than if he’d rolled down a hill.

“I’m sorry for everything I said. I was wrong,” the detective said.

Vick knew how well men lied. She held her ground.

“Go away.”

DuCharme reached into his jacket and removed several sheets of paper which were paper-clipped together. Vick spied the heading. It was a Broward Sheriff’s Department initial crime scene report.

“You need to see this, Rachel.”

“Piss off.”

“Come on, hear me out.”

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

“There’s been another killing.”

The sound of someone sneezing snapped both their heads. The door to Mrs. Rosenberg’s apartment creaked shut. Vick’s nosy neighbor was eavesdropping on their conversation.

“For the love of Christ, get your ass in here,” Vick said.

DuCharme shuffled into her apartment. She closed the door behind him and threw the deadbolt.

“Why the Sig?” he asked.

“The building’s had a lot of break-ins. I keep a loaded gun in every room.”

“It must be like living in Baghdad.”

“I’m not in the mood for small talk, Roger. Tell me what you have to say before I throw you out the flipping window.”

“I need a drink of water,” he said.

“Choking on your own words?”

“Please.”

She led him into the kitchen. He took a chair without being asked. His body language said that he’d just come from getting his ass chewed out. Cops were not supposed to slam other cops. His one-man publicity crusade had backfired on him. Poor Roger.

Vick set a glass of water down in front of him. She positioned herself on the other side of the room and leaned against the counter. She put the Sig down next to her.

“Tell me what happened,” she said.

DuCharme drank the water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “This morning a corpse was found on the roof of the parking garage across from the Broward Library. The head had been cut off. The corpse had a hat, which had a slip of paper stuck in the brim. The slip had the words Mr. Clean written on it.

“The coroner’s office examined the body. They’ve put the time of death at around the same time you and I were inside the library. Mr. Clean was watching us from the parking garage, and then killed someone and left him for us to see.”

“Any idea who the victim is?”

“They think he was a vagrant. Now, here’s the bad part. A reporter over at Fox News is all over the story, some pesky woman named Debbie Bodden. Bodden has made the connection between this killing, the shooting last night, and Wayne Ladd’s abduction. Fox was going to run a story on their noon news show saying that Mr. Clean was running amuck in Fort Lauderdale, but my boss got the station manager to put a lid on it.”

“How much time did he buy?”

“A day.”

Media shit storms were great at ruining criminal investigations, especially when the criminal was still at large. The clock was ticking.

“What do you want from me?” Vick asked.

“Help us find this guy. Please.”

“Who’s us? You?”

“Yeah. Moody wants me to stay involved in the investigation, and make amends.”

Vick laughed silently under her breath. No apology had been offered, just a tender pulling at her heart strings to stop a cold-blooded killer from claiming the life of another victim. She refilled DuCharme’s empty glass and threw the water in his face.

“Hey…!”

“That’s for going on television and ruining my reputation,” she said.

“I said I was sorry.”

“Fuck your sorry.”

“I’m going to issue an apology to the media once this is over, Rachel.”

“It’s too late for that. The damage is done. For the rest of my life, people will be able to Google my name, or go onto YouTube, and read or hear the things you said about me, none of which had an ounce of truth. You soiled me, Roger.”

Next to where DuCharme sat was a napkin dispenser. He pulled out several, which he used to dry his dripping wet face.

“You know, you’re really pretty when you’re angry,” he said.

The glass was still in Vick’s hand. Growing up with three older brothers had its advantages. For one thing, no one would ever accuse her of throwing like a girl.

She threw the glass at DuCharme with all her might. It winged the top of his head before hitting the wall and shattering.