“Is everything ready?” Linderman asked.
“Crutch is being moved from his cellblock to the prison chapel,” Jenkins said. “Once I get a call from the guards that he’s there, I’ll walk you over.”
“Why the chapel?”
“Crutch requested it. He goes to mass every week. I’m guessing Crutch thinks that we don’t have the chapel bugged or any hidden surveillance cameras inside.”
“Do you?”
Jenkins shook his head.
“Then he’s probably not guessing,” Linderman said. “He probably checked the chapel for bugs and knows that it’s safe. He might even have set up shop there, knowing it’s off-limits to your snooping. He could have weapons hidden inside.”
“Jesus, I never thought of that. What do you want to do?”
“Does your chaplain have an office?”
“He has a study. It’s located next to the chapel in the rear of the building.”
“We’ll do it there. Have your guards remove all sharp objects, including pens, pencils, paper clips, or anything with a sharp edge. Check the furniture to make sure none of the pieces can be screwed off, and used as weapons. Once the chaplain’s study is clear, put Crutch in there.”
“You sure you want to do this?”
“A boy’s life is at stake. I don’t have any choice.”
Jenkins got on the phone and made the necessary preparations. Finished, he hung up, and tried to engage Linderman in conversation. When his guest did not respond, he steepled his hands in front of his face, and let a long minute pass in silence.
“If you don’t mind my saying, you look like hell,” Jenkins said.
Linderman did not respond. He was running on fumes, and needed to save his energy for the prince of darkness. Confronting evil was like warfare, and required every ounce of a person’s resolve.
The phone on Jenkins’ desk lit up. Linderman knew what the call was about before Jenkins picked up the line.
Crutch sat in a folding chair with a pair of guards to either side. One guard was chewing bubble gum, the other had recently eaten onions.
Kill them, said the voice inside his head.
The chaplain’s study had been stripped clean of anything that might be used as a weapon; even the crucifixes on the walls were gone, their images still darkening the plaster. The desk was clean, as were the side tables and coffee cart. A print of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus hung behind the desk, a reproduction from the Basilica of the Nativity, her gaze fixed squarely on the back of Crutch’s head.
The door opened, and Warden Jenkins and Special Agent Ken Linderman entered the study. Crutch knew the second man was Linderman by the crease in his suit and the knot in his tie. His attention to detail was extraordinary. A classic profiler.
One of the guards spoke.
“He’s clean, warden,” the guard said. “We strip-searched him before he left his cell, then searched him again when we got here.”
“Did he touch anything once you brought him into the room?” Linderman asked.
The guard doing the talking hesitated and glanced at his partner. His indecision was his answer.
“Search him again,” Linderman said.
Crutch got out of his chair and stood spread eagle against the desk, playing the good inmate. The guard who hadn’t spoken patted Crutch down and turned his pants pockets inside out, finding nothing. Linderman watched the process carefully.
“Good enough,” the FBI agent said. “You gentleman can go. Thank you.”
The guards shuffled out of the study. Jenkins said, “We’ll be in the hall if you need us,” and followed them, shutting the door behind him.
Crutch returned to his chair, and sat with his hands on his knees. He knew he was being scrutinized, but chose not to stare back, his eyes focused on Linderman’s suit. It was classic Brooks Brothers, the pants having been recut to account for his thin waist, the jacket tailored to accommodate his sidearm. Crutch was fond of nice clothes, and longed for the day he’d again wear pretty things.
“Look at me,” the FBI agent said sharply.
Crutch smiled to himself. Linderman wanted to look at his face and stare into his eyes, the eyes being a window into a person’s soul. He obliged him.
“Happy now?” Crutch asked.
Linderman crossed his arms and glared at him. Like so many serial killers, Crutch looked incomplete, as if the Creator had put down the paint brush during his portrait, and left him without several important ingredients. This was the person Crutch saw whenever he looked at himself in the mirror. A half-finished man.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Crutch said.
“Start talking.”
“Let me tell you what I want. If you think it’s feasible, I will tell you what I’ll give you in return. Sound promising?”
The FBI agent nodded stiffly.
“A man of few words. How refreshing. All right, here’s my request. I want you to leave me alone. No more searching my cell, or bugging my telephone conversations, or interfering with my day-to-day existence. Go back to South Florida, and stay out of my life. I know what you are, and I want you gone.”
“And what is that?”
“A killer, just like me.”
Anger danced across the FBI agent’s eyes like lightening in a window.
“I don’t belong to your sick little club,” Linderman snapped.
“Oh, yes, you do,” Crutch shot back. “I read about it on the Internet. You and your men killed Simon Skell’s gang in cold blood. You had shotguns, and Skell’s boys had handguns. You slaughtered them in that house. I went to the FBI’s web site, and looked at the dead men’s photographs. I can look at a dead person, and tell you what the person who killed him was thinking when they took their life. You had revenge on your mind. You thought Skell’s gang abducted your precious daughter, so you butchered them, and then you killed Skell. The FBI should have called you on the carpet, only the bureau doesn’t like to punish it’s stars, so they left you alone.”
“I didn’t kill Skell,” Linderman said.
“Really? The reports I read said you were there.”
“Jack Carpenter killed Skell.”
“You knew what Carpenter would do to Skell. It was no different than you killing him yourself.”
“What does any of that have to do with you?”
Linderman was no longer in command of the conversation, and on the defensive. Crutch went for the kill. “It has everything to do with me. You’re a man on a mission who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants, including breaking laws. You’ll ruin your career just to fuck me. I recognize that trait in you, because I have it myself. I want you out of my life.”
“And in return, you’ll hand over Mr. Clean,” Linderman said.
The words caught Crutch by surprise. He would never give up Mr. Clean, or for that matter, any other serial killer he’d been in contact with.
“Who?” Crutch asked.
“Mr. Clean, the serial killer you’re talking to in Fort Lauderdale.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Don’t play that game with me. I saw the index cards in your cell. You figured out who Mr. Clean is, and made contact with him. You’ve got some sick deal with him that involves abducting violent teenage boys. Mr. Clean called you right before he abducted Wayne Ladd two days ago. You’re in cahoots with him.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Crutch said.
“You’re lying,” the FBI agent said, his voice rising. “You’ve been using the computers in the records department to go onto the Internet, and download information about killing and torture and all sorts of sick stuff. You’ve been doing research, putting together a special program for serial killers, haven’t you?”
Crutch rocked back in his chair. The momentum had shifted. Linderman was now on the attack, and doing his best to break him down.