James Swain - The Program

Only it hadn’t worked out that way. He was losing it, his thoughts no longer under his control. He wondered what he’d done to deserve such a fate.

Top of the hour, headline news. The lead story was out of Fort Lauderdale. A pretty brunette stood on a sidewalk, clutching a microphone while staring into the camera. Behind her, a riot of swirling lights and police cars blocking the street. He jacked up the volume, knowing something terrible had happened.

“It’s a grisly scene here tonight in Fort Lauderdale,” the reporter intoned. “A little over an hour ago, the police received an anonymous tip that a headless man was sitting behind the wheel of a car in front of a local ambulance service called American Eagle. Upon arriving at the scene, the police discovered the car and the man, whose head was found stuffed in a garbage can. The victim has been identified as homicide Detective Roger DuCharme of the Broward Sheriff’s Department.”

They cut away to a coiffed CNN newscaster sitting in a studio. “Do the police have any suspects in the killing?” the newscaster asked.

“They’re not saying,” the reporter replied, the screen splitting so that both their faces were showing. “We have learned that Detective DuCharme was working on a case involving a serial killer known as Mr. Clean. Whether or not Detective DuCharme’s killing is related to that case remains to be seen.”

“I see activity directly behind you,” the newscaster said. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

The reporter turned around, showing her back to the camera. Across the street, a CSI team was dusting a car for prints and vacuuming the floor mats for fibers. The team wore surgical masks, and looked like doctors performing surgery. Linderman got out of his chair and approached the TV. Kneeling, he brought his face up to the screen. The car the CSI team was checking was a blue Audi.

Vick drove a blue Audi.

He took his cell phone off the night table and called Rachel’s home number. Her voice mail picked up. He tried her cell phone, and got the same message. His next call was to Moody. The sheriff of Broward County answered on the first ring.

“Sheriff Moody here,” a somber voice said.

“This is Ken Linderman. I’m watching a news report on CNN about Roger DuCharme’s murder. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“It was Mr. Clean,” Moody said. “He shot DuCharme and cut his head off. He also got your girl.”

“You mean Vick?”

“Yeah. He left a note in DuCharme’s pocket, boasting about it.”

Linderman brought his hand up to his face and covered his eyes.

“We’re working on a lead,” Moody said. “Vick and DuCharme spent the past few hours visiting different ambulance companies asking for lists of drivers. Since we found Roger in the parking lot of an ambulance company called American Eagle, I’m thinking that Mr. Clean might be on their payroll. I’m going to have all the drivers pulled in, and questioned. Care to join me?”

“I’m in Pittsburgh,” Linderman heard himself say.

“Suit yourself. I’ll let you know what I turn up.”

The phone went dead in his hand.

He threw on his clothes and went outside. The chilly night air stung his face, and he stuck his hands deep into his pockets. He walked down a broken sidewalk, following the roaring sound of the river until he was standing by its edge. The black water was high, and moving along at a powerful clip. He longed to jump in, and let himself be carried away to another place. Just to escape this madness.

He took a step back, and the frightening urge went away.

His thoughts turned to Rachel. He had turned over this investigation to her against his better judgement. His gut had told him that she wasn’t ready, yet he’d gone and done it anyway.

He asked himself why.

It took a while, but then he knew. Rachel wasn’t just an agent who worked for him. She was a substitute for Danni. They were alike in so many ways – young, headstrong, ready to take on the world without truly understanding the consequences. Like Danni, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to help Vick succeed. That was why he’d done it. And now, he was probably never going to see Vick again. Just like Danni.

It was more than Linderman could stand. He buried his face in his hands, and wept.

Linderman’s cell phone rang at 6:00 a.m. It was Moody, calling with an update.

“We started pulling American Eagle’s drivers right after you and I spoke last night,” the sheriff said. “We’re taking them down to headquarters after their shifts end, and interviewing them.”

Fully dressed, Linderman sat on the edge of the bed in his motel room, facing the boxy TV. He’d stayed up all night watching reruns of Flipper and the old Lucille Ball Show. They were mindless enough to stop him from having any more hallucinations.

“Anyone stand out?” the FBI agent asked.

“No, they were all squeaky clean and had air tight alibis. We still have two more shifts of drivers to talk to,” Moody said.

“You’re interviewing the ambulance drivers a shift at a time? Mr. Clean might catch wind of what’s going on, and run.”

“I know that,” the sheriff said testily. “American Eagle runs twenty percent of the ambulances in Broward. We couldn’t pull all of the drivers off the streets without jeopardizing innocent people’s lives. So we’re grabbing the drivers when they finish their shifts. It’s not the way I’d prefer doing this, but I didn’t have any other choice.”

Another setback. Mr. Clean had eluded the law for twenty-five years, and was going to be gone before they got to him. Vick was doomed if he didn’t do something.

“Between you and me, I got a bad feeling about this,” Moody said.

“Why? What did you find?” Linderman asked.

“It’s what we didn’t find. There was no blood in the parking lot at American Eagle, or in Vick’s Audi. We’ve searched the grounds. Nothing.”

“So DuCharme wasn’t killed in the parking lot where you found him.”

“No, sir.”

“Do you think Mr. Clean purposely dumped DuCharme’s body at American Eagle?”

“Yes.”

“So this is all just a smoke screen.”

“Yes, again. But I still have to interview the American Eagle drivers, just to make sure.”

Linderman went to the window of his room and parted the curtain. Outside it was gray with a light mist falling. He could hear the frustration in Moody’s voice. There was no worse feeling than knowing you were being set up, and not being able to do anything about it. “Let me tell you why I’m in Pittsburgh,” he said. “There’s an inmate at Starke Prison who knows a lot about Mr. Clean, but won’t share the information with me. I’m trying to find evidence to nail this guy, and make him talk. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

“Same here. Good luck.”

“You, too.”

Linderman waited until sunrise to drive to the Crutchfield residence. The air was chilly, and reminded him of a fall Virginia morning. He used to live for days like this, rising early to run on the tender paths in the woods near his home, the sound of fallen leaves crackling beneath his running shoes, his breath misting before his face. He often wondered if he would ever return to that life, or would remain stuck in the brutal heat of South Florida, doing penance for sins beyond his comprehension.

The tree blocking the driveway was gone, in its place, a police cruiser. A silver-haired officer stood outside the cruiser, having a look around. Linderman parked behind the cruiser and got out. The officer dropped his hand on his gun like Wyatt Earp.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the officer asked.