James Swain - The Program

“Does our killer have a name?” the detective asked.

Vick thought back to the prostitutes they’d questioned that morning.

“Mr. Clean,” she said.

Everyone wrote it down.

“Mr. Clean is on a roll, and has become empowered by his crimes,” Vick continued. “More than likely, he believes the police will never apprehend him. With the sheriff department’s help, the FBI wants to set a trap, and see if we can catch him.”

Vick paused to let the detectives catch up. She had them now. It was her case.

“Our trap will be a special web site devoted to Mr. Clean’s crimes,” Vick went on. “The site will contain information about the three victims, and will invite viewers to share any thoughts or tips through a blog. This blog will have a special filter that will capture the IP addresses of anyone who visits it, along with the physical address of their computer.

“I know what you’re thinking. What if a few thousand people visit the site? What then? Well, the FBI has used web sites to capture serial killers before. We’ve discovered that these sites get heavy traffic the first day, followed by a second wave of visitors that include the victims’ families, friends, and often the killers themselves, who are interested in reading about the investigation, and what people say about them.

“Any good trap needs bait. The site will contain information about Mr. Clean which we know isn’t true, and is designed to entice him to respond. For example, we may say on the site that we think Mr. Clean has a low IQ, when in fact we know he’s above average intelligence. Or, we might say he’s a poor dresser. If we hit the right buttons, he’ll respond on the blog, and correct us. Once he does, we’ll track him down and catch him. Any questions?”

Several hands went up. Vick picked a Latino detective in a middle row.

“It sounds like you’ve got all the bases covered,” the Latino detective said. “What can we do?”

“This site is going to be presented as property of the Broward County Sheriff’s Department,” Vick replied. “It’s essential that the sheriff’s department play along. We need a detective to act as a spokesperson, and talk to the media. And, all of you must talk this up with the rank and file officers you come in contact with.”

“You want us to lie to other cops about the investigation?” the Latino detective asked.

“Yes,” Vick said.

“That’s not ethical.”

“No, but it’s necessary to our investigation.”

“Why? Do you think Mr. Clean is a cop?” the Latino detective asked.

A murmur went through the room. Vick cleared her throat.

“No, but he listens to cops,” she said.

There was a bottle of water on the table beside her. Vick unscrewed the top and took a swallow. The room had grown deathly still.

“The FBI has discovered an interesting trait among serial killers in recent years,” Vick said. “Many of these killers use scanners to monitor patrol car conversations. If we give one story to the media, while speaking the truth amongst ourselves, Mr. Clean might hear it, and figure out what’s going on. We can’t let that happen. Every cop in Broward County needs to be in the same church, singing out of the same pew. Understood?”

The Latino detective nodded solemnly. So did the other detectives packed into the conference room. Vick felt like she’d dodged a bullet, and decided to wrap things up.

“By the end of the day, each one of you will receive an artist’s composite of Mr. Clean, plus photographs taken off the surveillance store film,” she said. “The web site should be up and running by tonight. Please refer to it, and memorize the details. Any questions?”

DuCharme threw his hand into the air. He was the last person in the room she had expected to field a question from.

“Yes, Detective DuCharme,” she said.

“What’s he doing to them?” DuCharme asked.

The question caught Vick off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Mr. Clean. What’s he doing to his victims?”

“We don’t know what he’s doing to them, detective.”

DuCharme sat up straight in his chair. There was a gleam in his eye that she didn’t like, and she sensed he wasn’t going to let it go. Fucker .

“I thought serial killers used their victims to act out their fantasies,” DuCharme said, talking as much to the other detectives as to her. “That’s the gig, isn’t it?”

“Yes, detective, that’s the gig.”

“Then you must have a theory.”

“The FBI does not entertain theories, just facts, detective.”

“Were the victims tortured?”

“No.”

“Sexually abused?”

“There was no evidence of that.”

“You must have found something. ”

DuCharme was needling her. If Vick didn’t stop him right now, she’d run the risk of losing whatever credibility she’d established with his peers.

“There were ligature marks on the victims’ wrists and ankles,” Vick said. “Our lab has confirmed that Nardelli and Reedy were bound to a chair for several days with two inch wide leather straps. However, neither victim was physically tortured nor sexually abused, but in fact appeared to have been treated well by their captor. Both had full stomachs of food when we found them, and were dressed in very nice clothes which Mr. Clean gave to them.”

“What’s he doing – killing them with kindness?” DuCharme asked.

The line got a big laugh from the other detectives. Even Sheriff Moody got in on the fun. Vick had been raised in a household without laughter. Hearing it now made her feel like she was being mocked. She slammed the desk with her open palm, the sound sending a shock wave through the room.

“In case you didn’t hear me, Detective DuCharme, Mr. Clean is murdering his victims with a point blank shot to the head,” Vick said. “If we don’t find him quickly, he’ll kill Wayne Ladd in the same fashion. Now, are there any more questions?”

There were none. She glanced at Linderman, and saw him nod approvingly.

“Thank you for your time, and have a pleasant day,” Vick said.

Wayne Ladd could not shut his eyes.

He sat in a chair with a metal device strapped to his head that felt like a vice. The device had a pair of eyepieces that came down around his face, forcing both his eyes to stay open. He would have ripped the device off, only his arms were tied to the arms of a chair by thick leather straps.

He was scared.

He was in a small room with muted florescent lighting and a vanilla concrete floor. The walls were lined with something that looked like cork. A high-definition TV hung from the wall in front of him, the screen blank. Music blared through a pair of wall speakers, the Beatle’s Helter Skelter.

He was in hell.

He felt a sneeze coming on. He had read once that if a person sneezed with their eyelids open, their eyes would pop right out of their head. He filled his lungs with air and held his breath, and finally the sneeze went away.

He wanted to cry.

He had lost many things in his young life – his freedom, his friends, his older brother – yet losing his vision seemed far worse than any of those losses. Even worse than dying, he thought.

A film started to play on the TV. A porno movie, only not the kind he liked. There was no kissing or hugging or people talking dirty as they tore off each others clothes. He enjoyed those kind of movies. Instead, an enormous black man wearing a huge dildo with a red pump was raping a very scared white woman tied to a table. Watching it made his entire body shiver.

“Turn it off,” Ladd said loudly.

The porno movie continued to play. Ladd tried desperately to look away. He didn’t want to be watching this, or wake up in the middle of the night, thinking about it. He had enough nightmares to deal with.