James Swain - The Program

“This place used to have lots of animals living on it. Horses, dogs, even a couple of cows, if I remember right,” Doc explained. “More than likely the family buried them on the grounds when they died. My dogs will pick up those scents as well, and we’ll have to mark them for the excavation team.”

Linderman blew out his cheeks. He’d searched for bodies before, and knew how frustrating the process could be. This was a new wrinkle, and would be time-consuming.

Time was the one thing he didn’t have much of, and he asked Doc if there was any way they could speed up the process.

“Sure there is,” the handler said. “Make an educated guess as to where you think Crutch buried the bodies after he killed them. We’ll start there first.”

It sounded like a smart idea. Linderman walked around the house to the front lawn, and stood with his back to the house while gazing into the yard. It was still raining hard, the drops bouncing off the harder surfaces like tiny projectiles. His eyes fell on the pasture beside the barn. Surrounded by rotting three-board fencing, it looked to be about two acres in size. It felt right, and he pointed.

“Let’s start there,” he said.

“I’m game,” Doc said.

Tuffy and Bones didn’t waste any time. Within a few moments of hitting the pasture, they found a spot and began to paw violently at the ground.

“Flag it,” Doc said.

Linderman stuck a flag into the spot. The grass was knee-high and soaking wet. No sooner had he brushed off his hands when the dogs had found another spot a few feet away.

“Flag it,” Doc said.

Linderman did as told.

“Here’s another,” Doc said.

Within five minutes, he’d run out of flags, and the pasture resembled a mine field. He asked if there were any more inside the pickup truck.

“They’re behind the driver’s side,” Doc said. “This isn’t normal, you know.”

“Not even for a farm?” Linderman asked.

“I’ve searched for bodies on plenty of farms. I’ve never seen anything like this. You’ve thrown thirty flags, and we haven’t done half the damn pasture.”

“What do you think it is?”

“It’s a god damn cemetery, is what it is,” Doc said.

Linderman trudged out of the pasture toward the house. There was not enough time to dig up whatever was buried out there. He met Fitch halfway.

“The excavation team is on their way,” Fitch said.

“We’re going to need them,” Linderman said. “We’ve found over thirty graves and aren’t close to being done. I need you to do some digging, and see if there were a rash of unsolved crimes back when Crutch lived here.”

“You mean homicides?” Fitch asked.

Linderman shook his head. The graves in the pasture were not human – the police would have been all over those crimes by now – nor did he think they contained the remains of other humans whose graves might have been robbed, since that kind of crime was also vigorously pursued by the law. That left only one thing, and it played in perfectly with what he knew about Crutch’s twisted adolescence.

“Missing pets,” he said.

The six-member excavation team arrived around the time Linderman had run out of flags. Each member wore a black plastic Tyvek suit that tied around their necks, goggles, a surgical mask, and latex gloves. Their two vans were filled with equipment, including shovels, sifters, and a ground-penetrating radar machine, or GPR, that would let them see what was lying beneath the earth before having to dig it up.

Linderman stood by the rotting fence with Doc. He was soaked to the bone and his back was aching from bending over. Tuffy and Bones had rubbed their paws bloody and were lying at their feet.

“I wish they paid me by the flag,” Doc said.

The excavation team wheeled the GPR around the pasture. The machine was the size of a vacuum cleaner and about as nimble to move around. Linderman guessed the team would try to find the largest set of remains first, in the hopes it was a body. His hunch was proven right when they halted at one of the flags, and he heard a member call out, “We got a big one.” The area around the flag was sectioned off with string, and a plastic sheet was placed on the ground for the remains. Then the team started to dig.

The grave was shallow. Soon bones started to come out. Linderman walked over to see what they’d found. He’d pinned his badge to his jacket and did not bother to introduce himself. He was too damn tired to speak.

The captain of the team said hello. Tired and wet, and the job had only started. He pointed at the collection of bones lying on the sheet.

“Looks like a big dog. Fitch told me you were in a rush.”

Linderman grunted in the affirmative.

“I hate to tell you this, but we won’t stop once we have all the bones,” the captain said. “We’ll have to keep digging to make sure there isn’t a body buried down further. It’s a common trick – killers like to cover their victims with an animal corpse.”

“How far down?” Linderman asked.

“At least a few more feet.”

Linderman glanced at the army of flags sticking out of the ground. This could take forever, and even then, there was no guarantee that he’d find what he was looking for. His shoulders sagged as the last of his strength ebbed from his body.

“Are there any more excavation teams who could help us?” he asked.

“There’s one in the next county, but they’re on a job. I’m sorry.”

Linderman walked out of the pasture, knowing it was over. He couldn’t rush the process, nor did he have any more options at his disposal. He had tried and he had failed, no different that his efforts to find Danni.

He ducked into the barn. He wanted to get out of the rain, and be alone. He found a stool and sat down in the center aisle, staring into space.

Fitch appeared, soaked to the bone.

“I was looking for you,” Fitch said.

“You found me,” Linderman said.

“Is there anything else I can do? Anything at all?”

“I wish there was.”

Fitch pulled out a pack of cigarettes. They were all wet. He tried to light one up but could not get it going. In disgust he tossed it away.

“They don’t pay us to be heroes,” the officer said.

“Yes, they do,” Linderman said.

Vick did not want to die.

That should have been obvious, only Vick knew that it wasn’t. Many women abducted by serial killers chose to die before their ordeals were over. They provoked their captors into killing them, not wanting to be raped, beaten up, or subjected to endless torture or humiliation.

Vick was not one of those women.

She wanted to live, even if damaged. There was too much left to see in the world, too many things left to do. She was too young, as corny as that sounded.

Living was winning.

She’d read that in the newspaper. She thought Elizabeth Smart had said it. Smart had endured being tethered to a tree in a Utah forest while a crazy man raped her multiple times a day while his equally crazy wife watched. Now, Smart was a free woman and attending college, while her captors were confined to mental institutions.

Living was winning.

Naked, Vick hung by her wrist’s from a hook in the ceiling inside a small bedroom. Incense was burning and a pulsating rap song was playing on a hidden stereo system that sounded like Kanye West. In the corner, Wayne lay passed out on a water bed. Mr. Clean sat next to Wayne, shaking the teenager’s shoulder.

“Wayne, wake up,” Mr. Clean said.

“Let me sleep,” Wayne mumbled.

“You can sleep later.”

“No, now.”

“Suit yourself, my friend.”

Mr. Clean stood up and flexed his muscles. His olive-colored skin was smooth and pretty to look at. He could have had all the woman he’d wanted, had he been a normal guy. But normal was not part of the program. The sound of his knife tearing her clothes had snapped Vick awake a few minutes before. As her clothes had fallen, Mr. Clean had kissed her nipples while staring into her eyes.