The FBI had more information about serial killers than any other police agency in the world. Their site had hundreds of thousands of criminal case records and hundreds of lengthy reports. These were not clinical dissertations, but gritty accounts from agents assigned to fight monsters. Crutch had gotten his hands on the good stuff.
By combining the FBI’s information with his own research, he’d written a manual on how to turn out a serial killer. In the first chapter, he’d profiled the kind of teenage boys who were driven into violent fantasy lives. Teens who’d already committed violent acts – or taken a human life… were the best candidates.
Once the right teen was found, the boy needed to be kept isolated, and subjected to sensory deprivation. The tortures at Gitmo had proven that a person’s defenses could be quickly broken down. Bombarding the teen with pornographic films was one way to accomplish this; playing raucous music another.
The final phase of the Program was the most important. In it, the teen was made to perform a progression of violent acts while under the influence of drugs and alcohol, culminating in the murder of a young woman. This killing would be the teen’s defining moment, and determine whether he would graduate.
Crutch had planned to test The Program once he was paroled. But waiting had proven unbearable. He had to know if his thesis was right, so he’d found someone on the outside to help him.
According to the FBI’s web site, there were fifteen active serial killers in the country. Some were relatively new to the game, while others were old hands. The most intriguing was Killer X, who’d been hacking up prostitutes for twenty-five years. Killer X was getting on in years, and needed to pass the torch. He was the perfect person to test The Program.
The next step had been finding Killer X. That part had lasted many months. He had studied Killer X’s victims, and eventually seen a pattern that had eluded the FBI. That pattern had allowed him to identify the type of work Killer X did for a living. Renting a cell phone from one of the other inmates, he’d then tracked Killer X down.
Their first conversation had lasted several hours. Killer X had sounded tired of killing, yet had confessed that he did not know how to stop. Right then, Crutch had known that Killer X was the right person for the job.
He rose from his bed and went to the cell door. The surveillance camera was pointing at his cell now. It scared him, knowing how close he’d come to being caught. He needed Linderman gone so he could continue with his work.
Kill him, said the voice inside his head.
“I’m working on it,” he said aloud.
Chapter 19
Eric Drake looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. His right eye was swollen shut, his lips red and busted, and his nose resembled an overcooked blood sausage. The ice pack dripping down the side of his face only added to the gloom.
Linderman entered the interrogation room inside the Jacksonville Pretrial Detention Facility already knowing what had happened to Drake. Another inmate in the lockup had recognized Drake from Starke Prison, and decided to settle an old score. Drake had come out on the losing end of the exchange.
Drake’s lawyer sat beside him. His last name was Rucker, which Linderman thought he should change for obvious reasons. Rucker was shaped like a possum, and wore a cheap suit that did not fit him, and sported a haircut that resembled a bird’s nest. Those were not good signs in the criminal defense world.
Linderman closed the door and leaned against it. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and gave Drake a soul-searching stare.
“I want to offer you a deal,” the FBI agent said.
“Can you believe the nerve of this guy?” Drake muttered to his attorney.
“Hear him out,” Rucker said.
“This guy shot my brother to death this morning. Then he fucking lied to me, and said my brother had killed an FBI agent. Now he wants to cut me a deal.”
“Hear him out,” Rucker repeated.
“Why the hell should I?”
“He’s holding all the cards, Eric, and you’re holding none. As your attorney, I’d encourage you to listen to whatever he has to say.”
“You’re not my attorney, Fred, you’re my brother-in-law.”
“Just shut up and listen to him, Eric. Please. It’s for your own good.”
Drake said something unintelligible under his breath. The ice pack was leaking down the side of his face and soaking the collar of his orange jumpsuit. He looked more than a little bit afraid. Justice had a way of catching up to people, and paying them back when they were least expecting it. It was payback time for Drake.
“What’s your deal?” Drake asked.
“I want you to go back to the prison tonight, and give your contact a bag of cell phones that the FBI will supply you,” Linderman said.
“What do I get in return?”
“Play ball, and I’ll ask the prosecutor to drop all charges against you.”
“You’re yanking my chain.”
“No, I’m not.”
Rucker grabbed his client’s biceps and gave it a squeeze.
“Take it,” the attorney whispered.
“I gotta think about this,” Drake whispered back.
“Take it, before he changes his mind.”
“Is this a sting?” Drake asked Linderman.
“Yes, Eric, it’s a sting.”
“Who are you setting up?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Drake eyelids flickered. Thinking hard about what he was getting himself into, and the consequences once it played out.
“I want a new identity and to be put in witness protection,” Drake blurted out.
“Eric…” the attorney said.
“Shut up,” Drake said. To Linderman he said, “The inmate I rent the cell phones to is named Thunder. Thunder used to run the Latin Kings down in Miami. When he finds out I set him up, he’ll send a posse to kill me, no questions asked.”
“I can put you in witness protection,” Linderman said.
“Do I get to pick the city?”
“Name it.”
“Arizona.”
“Done,” Linderman said.
“When is this sting going down?”
“Tonight.”
“What if Thunder asks about my face? What do I tell him?”
“Tell him were in a car accident.”
“I’ll need you to give me a story. I’m no good at lying.”
“I can give you a story. We can work on it back at your house.”
“All right. I’m in.”
Rucker sprang to his feet and stuck out his hand. Linderman shook it, sealing the deal. Drake cleared his throat and said, “Hold on a minute.”
The tone of Drake’s voice was troubling. Like he was about to drop a bomb on them. Linderman dropped the attorney’s hand and shot Drake a hard stare.
“What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.
“If this sting goes sideways, I don’t want to get blamed,” Drake said.
“Why would it go sideways?”
“Thunder might find out it’s a sting. He’s a mean sob.”
“If you handle it right, he won’t know a thing.”
“It doesn’t matter how I handle it. Thunder still might find out. Other inmates, too.”
Drake knew something that he wasn’t sharing. Linderman crossed the interrogation room and stopped a foot from Drake’s chair.
“Explain yourself,” the FBI agent said.
“I told you this morning that every inmate is allowed to keep five grand in a bank account,” Drake said. “Thunder uses his money to bribe the guards for information. So do a lot of the other inmates. There are no secrets inside Starke Prison.”
Linderman thought back to Crutch crossing the prison yard while chatting amicably to a guard. It had looked innocent, only now he realized how dangerous it really was.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Linderman said.
An hour later, Drake was released from the lockup. Linderman was waiting outside the PDF in an unmarked van, which he used to drive Drake back to his house on the south side of town. Vaughn Wood and two field agents followed in a second van. The two vehicles parked in Drake’s driveway behind his pickup truck, and everyone got out.