James Swain - The Program

“What do I get in return?”

“I’ll tell the DA about the notebooks I found in your bedroom, and how they prove you were insane at the time of the killings.”

“Sparing me the death penalty.”

“That’s right.”

Crutch leaned forward. “What about our original deal? Don’t you want to know what happened to Danni? Or are you willing to sacrifice her to find Mr. Clean?”

Linderman leaned forward as well. So great was his urge to strangle the life out of Crutch that he kept his hands firmly on his knees. “You don’t know what happened to Danni, outside of what you already told me. I realized it earlier. You were lying.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Crutch thundered.

“Yes, you were. You claimed that Simon Skell told you the name of the rich foreigner he sold my daughter to. Skell never would have done that. Skell didn’t confide in anyone, not even the members of his gang. He was too cagey for that.”

“But he confided in me,” Crutch said.

“And risk having you squeal so you could win an early release from prison? I don’t think so. You don’t know the name of the man who has my daughter, and you never did.”

Crutch eyelids fluttered and he rocked back on his cot. He had run out of bullets.

“You are very intuitive,” he said.

“I want Mr. Clean,” Linderman said.

“Promise me I’ll be spared the death penalty. I trust you, you know.”

“I’ll do everything to insure you aren’t put to death,” Linderman replied.

“What about Leon, the inmate I killed. Will I be charged for his murder?”

Linderman glanced across the cell at Jenkins.

“No,” the warden said. “It was an act of self defense.”

Crutch nodded, satisfied. “Very well. Mr. Clean is a Cuban ambulance driver named Renaldo Devine. He derives pleasure from dumping his victims bodies in public places, then being available when the 911 call comes in. His name is on the log of every hospital where a victim was brought in.”

“Is that how you found him?” Linderman asked.

“No. The hospitals would not divulge the information. All I knew was that he was an ambulance driver. Broward County has six companies which do this kind of work. I found the names of the drivers on the company’s web sites, and left messages at work for them. I used the name of Mr. Clean’s latest victim, and asked the driver to call me back. I left about a hundred of these messages. Finally, Devine called me back.”

“Keep going.”

Crutch’s eyes narrowed through his muzzle. “Who said there was more?”

“I did.”

“But what if there isn’t?”

“The deal is off.”

“Fucking bastard!”

“Watch your mouth!” the guard warned.

“Very well. Mr. Clean lives by himself in a house on a dead end street in Cooper City. He keeps guns in every room of his house, and has taken many precautions to protect himself. Be careful, or he will surprise you. That’s all I can think of at the moment. Perhaps I can call you if I remember something else of value.”

“You aren’t going to be making any phone calls from this prison,” Jenkins declared.

Linderman rose from the chair. It had been a long, difficult journey, but he had finally learned the truth. He scooped up the story boards from the floor.

“I’d like to keep those, if I may,” Crutch said.

“What for?” Linderman asked.

“You know what they say. All we have are memories.”

Vick woke up in the darkness, her mouth tasting of dried blood. She ran her tongue over her teeth, and found them all there. So much for small favors.

It wasn’t the first time a man had smacked her in the face. Her father had once knocked out one of her front teeth during a heated argument. He’d later apologized, and offered to buy her a car. But it was too late for apologies. The damage had been done, and she’d left home as soon as she’d been able to support herself.

Thinking about her father brought warm tears to her eyes. He’d been such a bastard that she’d promised herself to never shed another tear over him again. Yet here she was, letting the waterworks flow.

The tears kept coming. Was it really her father she was crying for? Or were the tears for Wayne Ladd? Not the Wayne Ladd who’d raped her and then delivered a right cross to her jaw. No, she was crying for the beautiful teenage boy whose photograph had conjured up heartthrob dreams and fantasies of highschool boyfriends she’d never had. That punch had shattered those dreams while extinguishing a flame deep inside of her.

She heard voices. Mr. Clean and Wayne were having a conversation. She shifted her body and put her ear against the wall of the trunk. She could hear them talking about food, and whether they wanted burgers or Chick Fil-A. How lovely.

They settled on burgers, and went to a drive-through. She listened to Mr. Clean order two double bacon cheeseburgers and two large orders of fries through the squawk box. The cashier repeated the order, his voice crackling with static.

Mr. Clean parked somewhere nearby, and he and Wayne ate lunch. They did not talk while they ate. It reminded Vick of meal time at her home growing up, her fathers and brothers wolfing down their food without making a sound.

She wondered why she was thinking these thoughts. She kept little contact with her family, nothing more than a phone call on holidays and birthdays. Her brothers had never stood up for her, and like her father, she had little use for them. So why were her thoughts fixated on them now? Was she afraid she was never going to see them again?

The sweet smell of marijuana drifted into the trunk. Mr. Clean and Wayne were getting high again. Their voices changed, growing louder and more relaxed. There was no mistaking that a bond had formed between them. Mr. Clean liked Wayne, and treated him like a son. Wayne, in turn, was respectful of his captor, and seemed willing to go along with whatever Mr. Clean suggested. They were a team.

Their talk shifted to how they were going to kill Vick, and dispose of her body. She should have been horrified, but surprisingly was not. She had studied enough serial killers to know how the game was played.

“I want you to kill her,” she heard Mr. Clean say.

“Me?” Wayne replied, coughing loudly.

“You fucked her, you get to kill her,” Mr. Clean said.

“Is that how it works?” Wayne asked, still coughing.

“Yes. That’s how it works.”

“Well, if you say so. When?”

“Once it grows dark.”

“Why wait?”

“Because you must always kill at night.”

“Nobody can see you, huh?”

“That’s right. The night is our greatest asset.”

“Whatever you say.” More loud coughing. “Can we get another burger? I’m still hungry.”

Mr. Clean started the engine. They continued to banter during the ride back to the drive-through, their voices not betraying a care or trouble in the world.

Vick shut her eyes, knowing she was doomed.

Cooper City was a bedroom community in south Broward County, the pleasant, cookie-cutter developments packed together like cookies in a can. The houses were older and more modest here, and dated back to a simpler time.

Renaldo Devine’s ranch house had been built in the sixties, which qualified it for historical preservation by Florida standards. On a dead end street, it had surveillance cameras posted on the four corners of the house. The padlocked gate boasted a multi-lingual No Trespassing sign.

Linderman sat in a police surveillance van across the street, staring at a live feed of the house on a monitor. He had arrived a short while ago, having been whisked from the airport in an unmarked car. Moody sat next to him, wearing a bulletproof vest.