James Swain - The Program

“I’ve got a better idea,” Vick said. “Instead of looking at files, why don’t we go and look at one of the crime scenes? It will give us a better feel for him.”

“You mean where he dumped one of his victims?” DuCharme asked.

“Yes. I did that when I was writing my thesis on Son of Sam. I flew to New York, and went to several locations in Queens where Son of Sam shot his victims while they were sitting in their cars. It helped me get a feel for the guy’s psyche.”

“Any victim of Mr. Clean’s in particular?”

“Barrie Reedy, the boy Mr. Clean abducted before Wayne Ladd. Reedy’s body was found two weeks ago in West Broward. The scene will be the freshest.”

DuCharme flashed a toothy grin. There was a sparkle in his eye that said he thought there was still hope for them. Vick was going to make sure that sparkle was gone when the case was over. Until then, she would just have to suffer.

Taking Vick’s Audi, they drove north on I-95 into Broward, then headed west on Sunrise Boulevard to the overgrown field near the Sawgrass Mills Mall where Reedy’s body had been found. Vick parked on the shoulder, and they both got out.

The afternoon air was moist and still. In the west, black storm clouds filled the horizon, their march toward the city slow and ominous. By early evening, some area of the county would be punished by their fury.

Vick trudged through the tall grass with DuCharme kicking at her heels. Reedy’s body had been found in the middle of the field next to the shopping mall, approximately a hundred yards from the service road. If she remembered correctly, the body had been fresh, and had not started to decompose.

She came to the crime scene and stopped. It was a flat area with knee high grass. A No Dumping sign was posted on a nearby tree, covered in lewd graffiti. Pieces of yellow police tape still lay on the ground, the weeds flattened from the CSI people looking for clues. She rose on her tip-toes and did a slow three-sixty spin, staring.

“What are you looking for?” DuCharme asked.

“The reason Reedy’s body was dumped here,” she replied.

“What do you mean?”

Vick lowered her heels and turned to face him. “Rule one of finding a body. Why was it dumped here? There’s always a reason. Most of the time, it’s the most convenient spot for the killer to use. That’s not the case here. Mr. Clean had to park on the service road, and carry Reedy’s body from his vehicle to this spot. Why did he do that?”

A cigarette had appeared in DuCharme’s mouth, a lit match in his hand. He took a deep drag and shrugged.

“We need to find out,” Vick said. “Let’s start walking the field.”

“What are we looking for?”

“The thing which attracted Mr. Clean to this area.”

Vick took a Kleenex from her purse and wiped the sweat off her brow. Then she put on a pair of shades and started her hunt. DuCharme took off in the opposite direction.

She took fifteen steps and came to a small clearing with soda cans littering the ground. The spot looked like a teenage hangout. Kneeling, she ran her fingers through the grass, and found several cigarette butts and gum wrappers.

She stood up and walked around the clearing. She came to a well-worn trail which led directly back to the Sawgrass Mall on the other side of the field. She guessed this was where teenage workers at the mall came on their break to drink sodas and smoke.

She spent another twenty minutes searching the field, but eventually came back to the hangout spot. It was the only place on the field where there was any sign of human activity. DuCharme soon joined her, his forehead glistening with perspiration.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“You’re standing in it,” Vick replied.

He looked around. “What am I missing?”

“Mr. Clean dumped Reedy’s body near a spot where teenagers hang out. Why did he do that, instead of dumping it someplace else?”

DuCharme had to think for a second.

“He wanted it to be found?” the detective asked.

“Yes. And he got his wish. Reedy was found right away. The question is, was this the first time Mr. Clean did this, or have we found a pattern?”

Back in the car, they poured through the case files of Mr. Clean’s killings of prostitutes. Vick immediately found a number of similarities that had not popped out at her before. The bodies of his victims had been found near well-used areas in Broward County, including several public parks, the Holiday Tennis Center, a half-dozen shopping malls, and several golf courses. Each body had been found in a relatively fresh state, allowing the police to clearly identify what had been done to it. In every case, the body had been discovered by someone who regularly frequented the area.

So what did it all mean? Vick didn’t know. She shut her eyes and basked in the car’s AC, trying to figure it out. Mr. Clean had hidden his victim’s bodies well enough to avoid immediate detection, yet in spots where he knew the bodies would be eventually found, usually within twenty-four hours of having been dumped.

She glanced at DuCharme. He was reading a file, his lips moving silently.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

The detective kept reading for a few seconds more, then shut the file.

“Something’s bothering me,” DuCharme said.

“What?”

“Mr. Clean wanted the police to find his victims, yet he never contacted the police to take responsibility for the killings. That’s not normal, is it?”

Vick blinked. DuCharme was right. Serial killers who killed their victims in public places generally contacted the police or the media and took responsibility. It was how they satisfied their cravings for recognition.

But that wasn’t Mr. Clean’s profile. He’d been killing women for a quarter century, and not once contacted the police, or the media. He was an invisible man.

Vick was wide awake now. There was something else going on here, some other reason why Mr. Clean had dumped the bodies to be found. She turned down the AC and gave DuCharme her best southern smile.

“Good call,” she said. “Now what does it mean?”

DuCharme reached into the backseat and retrieved her thesis on Son of Sam. He opened the report to the section which detailed Son of Sam’s killings, and slapped the pages with his fingers.

“It’s in here, right?” he asked.

“Right,” she said.

“Why don’t you drive, and I’ll read it to you. Maybe you’ll see it.”

“Why should I drive?”

“It was an old trick my partner used to use. When a case was bothering him, he’d drive around town and have me read the case file to him,” DuCharme explained. “There was something about the concentration that it took to drive the car that cleared his head.”

“It worked?”

“Most of the time, yeah.”

Vick was willing to try just about anything at this point. She started the engine and drove down the shoulder of Sunrise Boulevard and merged into traffic. The roads were jammed, and she drove with her eyes glued to the sea of cars.

“Start reading,” she said.

“Okay. Son of Sam’s first tried to kill his victims with a knife. On three different occasions, he stabbed a woman on the streets of New York and ran away. When he saw no mention of the crimes in the newspapers, he assumed the women had survived, and decided to start using a gun.

“He drove to Texas and purchased a Charter Arms.44 pistol and some bullets. He was afraid to buy ammunition in New York because he was afraid the police would somehow track down the shell casings to his residence.

“His first victim was a nineteen-year-old named Donna Lauria. Lauria was sitting in her car with a friend named Jody Valente in front of Lauria’s home at one o’clock in the morning on July 21, 1976. Valentne started to exit the car when Son of Sam approached holding a brown paper bag. He drew a gun from the bag and fired five shots, wounding Valente and killing Lauria. Then he ran away.