James Swain - The Program

“I hear the police have been sniffing around,” Renaldo said.

Joey had a cup of coffee in one hand, a smoldering cigarette in the other, his eyes ringed from lack of sleep. His wife had given birth a few weeks ago, and the baby was keeping the parents up at night.

“Who told you that?” Joey asked.

“A driver from another company called me,” Renaldo said.

“They haven’t been by to see me, I can tell you that. It’s probably nothing.”

“You’re probably right.”

Joey took a call on his cell. Renaldo stepped away from the desk, his mind racing. The police and the FBI had not visited EMS yet. It gave him an idea.

Joey told his wife he’d be home in a few hours, and hung up.

“No one told me having kids was this hard,” Joey said. “You have any kids?”

“A son,” Renaldo replied.

“How old?”

“Seventeen.”

“A teenager, huh. He give you much trouble?”

“No, he’s a good boy.”

“You’re lucky. I hear teenagers are murder.”

“Why don’t you go home, and help your wife? I’ll take over for you.”

Joey perked up. “Seriously? You know how to handle the calls?”

“I’ve subbed before. Go,” Renaldo said.

Joey did not need any more encouragement. He grabbed his cigarettes and cell phone off the desk and was out the door in a flash. Renaldo stood by the window and watched Joey’s car peel out of the lot. He told himself it just might work.

Renaldo went outside. Harry and Tommy’s vehicles were gone. Popping the trunk of his car, he removed the Taurus.410 handgun, and went back inside.

He sat at Joey’s desk, the chair still warm. He placed an upside-down waste basket beneath the desk, and rested the Taurus on top of it, within the reach of his hand. Then he waited for the law to come calling.

Twenty minutes later, a blue Audi drove into the EMS lot and parked. Two shadowy figures sat in the front seats. Renaldo picked up the phone on the desk and pretended to be talking, his eyes glued to the figures.

The passenger door on the Audi opened. A light came on, illuminating the car’s interior. Behind the wheel sat the cute blond FBI agent he’d seen outside the Broward Library. She was very young-looking, and perky. A keeper, he decided.

A man climbed out of the Audi, and headed up the path. The man had a detective’s badge pinned to the pocket of his sports jacket, and had also been outside the library.

Renaldo continued to talk into the dead phone. For the first time, he noticed the framed wedding photograph of Joey and his wife sitting on the desk. If the detective came into the office and saw it, he’d know Renaldo wasn’t the dispatcher.

Renaldo cursed silently to himself.

The detective suddenly turned around, and walked back to the Audi. He gave something to the cute FBI agent, which led to a brief conversation. Renaldo slipped the framed photo into a drawer.

The detective came back up the path. Renaldo detected a slight lift to his step. Did the detective want the FBI agent? It certainly looked that way. Knowing this made her that much more desirable to Renaldo, and strengthened his resolve to possess her.

The detective entered the office. Renaldo said goodbye and hung up the phone.

“Can I help you?” Renaldo said pleasantly.

“I’m Detective DuCharme with the Broward Sheriff’s Department,” his visitor said. “I need to get a list of your ambulance drivers.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I’ll ask the questions, okay?”

“Certainly. I’m happy to help if I can.”

“What’s your name?”

“Joey Gonzalez,” Renaldo replied.

“What do you do here?”

“I’m the dispatcher. My father owns the company.”

“How long have you worked here, Joey?”

“All of my life.”

“How well do you know your employees?”

“Very well.”

“I’m looking for a Cuban ambulance driver who’s been linked to a series of abductions of teenage boys. Two of the boys ended up dead.”

“How horrible.”

“We need to find this guy before he kills again. The driver is in his forties. He’s about my height, and powerfully built. Ring any bells?”

“That description matches several of our drivers. Can you tell me anything else about him?”

“He’s a loner, and probably isn’t married,” the detective said. “He may have gotten into trouble with the law before.”

Renaldo leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. It surprised him that the detective hadn’t asked to see some form of identification, but instead had chosen to take him at his word. The detective was either very tired, or very stupid, Renaldo thought.

“There’s a driver named Renaldo Devine who matches your description,” Renaldo said. “He’s a bit of strange one. Always talking about beating up women.”

Detective DuCharme perked up. “Has he ever been arrested?”

“I don’t know. If he has, he didn’t tell me.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Ever married?”

“No. He has no close friends that I know of.”

“Have you seen Devine recently?”

“He ended his shift a half-hour ago. Said he was going to a bar down the road for a beer. He likes to drink.”

DuCharme smiled knowingly. He’d swallowed the bait whole.

“How about taking us to this bar, and pointing Renaldo out?”

“Us?”

“Me and my partner. She’s in the car outside.”

“Of course. Give me a moment to forward the incoming calls,” Renaldo said.

Renaldo picked up the phone and punched meaningless numbers into the keypad. DuCharme moved to the door and went outside. Renaldo grabbed the Taurus, and followed him.

Together, they walked down the path. Renaldo stayed a few steps back, and dangled the Taurus by his side, letting the detective’s body shield it from the FBI agent sitting behind the wheel of the Audi.

The parking lot had several low wattage halogen lights. Nearing the Audi, Renaldo got a good look at the FBI agent. She was much prettier than he’d thought, and looked remarkably young. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect victim.

DuCharme walked around to the driver’s door. Renaldo stayed glued to the detective, his gun hidden. The FBI agent lowered her window, and poked her head out.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“This is Joey Gonzalez, the dispatcher for EMS,” the detective replied. “You’re not going to believe this, but I think I found Mr. Clean.”

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“Nope. He’s down the road, getting drunk in a bar.”

The detective’s voice was filled with swagger. Trying to impress the FBI agent, Renaldo thought. Lifting his arm, he placed the Taurus to the side of the detective’s head, then paused to look at the FBI agent before pulling the trigger.

Linderman could not sleep. Each time he started to doze off, he saw Crutch brutally killing his mothers and three sisters, the dream a loop of horror that would not end. It was said that people only dreamed in black and white, yet his dreams were filled with red.

He dragged himself out of bed. He’d rented a room at the Oakmont Hotel three blocks from the Allegheny River. It was small and had paper thin walls. Each time his neighbor flushed the toilet, it sounded like lightening had struck the building.

He ate the remains of a take-out dinner from Outback while watching CNN. The food was cold and tasted like cardboard. He wasn’t hungry, only the scale in the bathroom said that he’d lost five pounds. Looking in the mirror, he’d seen bones where before there had been nothing but skin.

It was not supposed to be like this. The good guys were not supposed to turn into the mad men. Their thoughts, and deeds, were supposed to protect them from that.