James Swain - The Program

“Tell me again what you saw,” Linderman said.

Ariel stared through the glass. “The man in white came off the bus, and crossed the street. He came to the front of my store and hung around for a while. Wait, I remember something now. He went around the side of the building to use the pay phone, and two girls approached him. He said something to them. His voice was quite harsh.”

“Do you know these girls?” Linderman asked.

“Yes. They are prostitutes.”

“Describe them.”

“They are both white, rather small, sisters I think. Today they are wearing pink hot pants and halter tops. They hang around on the corner, and men in cars pick them up for blow jobs.”

Linderman slapped Ariel on the shoulder. “Thank you. Now give me back the dollar you stole from me.”

Vick stood beneath the shade of the bus stop, talking on her cell phone. She ended her call, and Linderman handed her a soda.

“Asshole,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean you.”

“Let me guess. The Broward cops are giving you a hard time.”

“Yes. I spoke with the head honcho, Sheriff Moody. Moody said he was swamped, and suggest we contact the bus company ourselves. What’s his beef?”

“He probably doesn’t like being told what to do.”

Vick drank her soda in silence. She did not like having her authority questioned, especially by another law enforcement officer. He supposed it had to do with her size, and being a woman in a field dominated by insensitive men.

“The convenience store manager was helpful,” Linderman said. “He told me that a pair of hookers wearing pink hot pants talked to our killer this morning.”

“I saw those girls a few minutes ago.”

“Which way did they go?”

She lowered her soda and pointed south.

“Let’s go find them,” Linderman said.

Two blocks away they found the hookers negotiating with a john in a Mercedes. Both girls were horribly thin and missing several of their front teeth. Linderman banged on the roof of the Mercedes and flashed his badge. The john sped away. They led the girls down the street to an alleyway. Neither seemed terribly upset by the interruption.

“We’ve never been stopped by the FBI before,” one of the hookers said proudly.

“Maybe we should get out pictures taken,” the other hooker said.

Linderman didn’t bother to ask them their names: They would only give him fake ones anyway. Instead, he said, “This morning at around seven o’clock you talked to a big Latino man dressed in white. Tell me about him.”

“You mean Mr. Clean?” the first hooker said. “That guy was in fucking love with himself. Real prima dono.”

“Prima dona,” the other hooker corrected.

“Fuck you,” the first hooker laughed.

Linderman cued Vick with his eyes. He wanted her to jump in, and take over. It was always better for a woman to interrogate another woman than a man.

“Do you remember what Mr. Clean said to you?” Vick asked.

“He cursed us,” the first hooker said.

“Why did he do that?”

“He was trying to make a phone call. We went up to him to see if he wanted some company, and he told us to go down on each other. Then he started yelling at Ernesto.”

“Ernesto?” Vick asked.

“Ernesto hangs around the convenience store. He was lying in the bushes sleeping off a hangover, and he started singing an old Beatle’s song. I Want to Hold your Hand…”

“It was Please, Please Me,” the other hooker corrected.

“Fuck you,” the first hooker laughed. “Anyway, Mr. Clean told Ernesto to shut the fuck up or he’d hurt him. Ernesto went back to sleep, and Mr. Clean finished his call.”

“Did you hear what Mr. Clean said during his call?” Vick asked.

“Naw.”

“Have you ever seen Mr. Clean before? Think hard.”

Both hookers scrunched up their faces. They shook their heads.

“Thank you. You’ve been a big help,” Vick said.

“Sure we have,” the first hooker laughed.

They found Ernesto lying in the bushes outside the convenience store, just like the hookers said. A young man dressed in dark dress slacks and a collared long sleeve blue shirt, the quality of his clothes suggesting he’d only recently fallen from grace.

Linderman woke Ernesto up, and made him sit with his back against the store window. Vick bought a large coffee, and gave it to him to drink. Drunks were not reliable witnesses, but Linderman decided to give it a shot.

“This morning, you had an argument with a Latino man trying to make a phone call,” Linderman said. “I need you to tell me what you remember about him.”

“Is that what the sirens were about?” Ernesto asked.

“Yes.”

“What did he do?”

“He slit a man’s throat and abducted a teenage boy.”

Ernesto crossed himself and took a swig of coffee. Caffeine took fifteen seconds to hit a person’s blood stream. The effect it had on Ernesto was nothing short of miraculous. His eyes snapped open, and he instantly became alert. “I lost my job selling cars last month, then my wife walked out on me,” he explained. “I’ve been on a bender ever since. I ended up here last night and crashed. When I woke up this morning, something came over me, and I started singing. This Cuban guy making a phone call started yelling at me.”

“How did you know he was Cuban?” Linderman asked.

“I’m Cuban. I know another Cubano when I hear one.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He told me he’d break my neck if I didn’t shut up. He looked pretty strong, so I stopped singing, and he went back to his call.”

“What do you remember about his phone call?”

Ernesto resumed drinking his coffee and shook his head. The memory was there, Linderman just needed to pull it out. The FBI agent decided to try another approach.

“Close your eyes, and imagine him making the call,” Linderman said.

“What good is that going to do?” Ernesto asked.

“Just try.”

Ernesto shut his eyes. “All right, I see him.”

“Imagine him dropping coins in the phone.”

“Okay.”

“How many coins did he drop?”

Ernesto hesitated. “Six or seven.”

“Coins make different sounds. Was he dropping nickels, dimes, or quarters?”

Another hesitation. “Quarters. They were heavy.”

“He’s stopped yelling at you, and is talking to someone. Who?”

“The crack whores.”

“I mean on the phone. Who did he call?”

Ernesto paused, struggling. “A guy. It was definitely a guy.”

“Did he address him by name?”

“No. They didn’t talk very long.”

“What did he say to him?”

“He said something strange. He said, “I found the right boy for the Program,’ and said goodbye.” Ernesto opened his eyes. “That’s all I remember.”

Linderman patted him on the shoulder. “That’s great. You’ve been a big help.”

The pay phone was on the side of the convenience store. Covered in graffiti, it had a silver sticker that identified it as the property of Sky Tell Communications. Linderman wrote down the company’s phone number and returned to the front of the store. Ernesto was on his feet, brushing himself off.

“Feeling better?” Linderman asked.

“Much. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Here’s my card. Call me if you remember anything else.”

Ernesto crossed the street to the bus stop. A bus came, and he boarded. He’d lost everything but his dignity, and hopefully would climb out of the hole he’d dug for himself. Linderman handed Vick the number for Sky Tell Communications. “This is the number for the company that owns the pay phone our killer used. We need to contact them, and get a list of all incoming and outgoing calls made from the phone this morning. While you’re at it, have the CSI techs dust the pay phone for prints and trace DNA, and see what turns up. We may get lucky.”