He had to give Crutch credit. He’d figured out who Killer X was by studying his crimes, besting the profilers at Quantico. He needed to fix that. If Crutch could figure out the puzzle, so could he.
He started by copying what Crutch had written on a separate sheet of paper. It was an unusual exercise, designed to make the writer feel the words as they came off the pen. He wrote slowly, pausing to stare after each line.
Name: Killer X
Age:40-50
Characteristics:Handsome, soft-spoken, a person women
are not initially afraid of.
Resides: South Florida
# of years killing:25+
Upbringing:Did not know father, barely knew mother.
Raised by sibling or grandparent. May have
done time in prison at a young age, which led
to a lifelong fear of being incarcerated.
Fetishes:Bodybuilding, nice clothes, grooming
products (aftershave, cologne, cleansers)
Type of victim:Female prostitutes
Victims’ characteristics:Street walker (no call services)
20-30 years old
No kids or family (not missed)
Raped
Throat slit
Last seen at night
Black or Hispanic, but will kill a
white girl in a pinch.
Body found near hwy or public road
Notes:Can’t get enough of his victims. Just like
SOS. Should be easy to find.
Linderman chewed on the end of his pen. The last three lines were already haunting him. What did Crutch mean, can’t get enough of his victims? And who was SOS?
His lunch came. He’d lost his appetite, and pushed the plate aside.
He studied the Crutch’s notes until his eyes turned blurry. The clue to Killer X’s identity was staring him right in the face, yet he couldn’t identify it. Crutch had claimed that he could look at the photograph of a dead person, and know what their killer had been thinking when he’d committed the crime. Perhaps he needed to look at the victims’ autopsy photos, and see if anything popped out.
Then he had a thought. This wasn’t his case, it was Rachel’s. She had made Mr. Clean right from the start, and was tuned into him. Vick needed to have a crack at this, and see what she could come up with. He kicked himself for not thinking of her sooner.
It was not a phone call he wanted to make inside the restaurant. He found his waitress on the other side of the room, and mimed signing a check. She mouthed that she’d be right over.
He leaned back in his chair to wait. The morning’s events had added to his exhaustion, and he rubbed his eyes and smothered a yawn.
His gaze fell on the electric chair. The velvet rope was gone, the chair occupied by a man wearing an orange prison uniform, his arms and legs tied down. It was Crutch. His head had been shaved, and strapped beneath his chin was a leather restraining device to stop him from screaming when the juice was thrown. Behind the chair stood a man with his hand on a switch, his face masked by shadows.
The switch was thrown, and Crutch started to convulse. Smoke came off the top of his head, and blood poured down his nose. The man in the suit lifted the switch, and Crutch fell limp in the chair. He had ridden the lightening into the hereafter.
The executioner stepped out of the shadows. Linderman’s heart skipped a beat. He was looking at himself. He was the executioner.
“Something wrong?” the waitress asked, slapping the check down.
He snapped back to reality. The electric chair was empty, the velvet rope back in place. Nothing had happened.
“No,” he managed to say.
“You’re looking mighty pale. The food didn’t upset you, did it?”
“Food was fine.”
“You hardly touched a thing. Sure you don’t want me to send it back? It’s no problem.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Linderman settled his bill and went outside. He sat for a while in his rental, and tried to get his wits about him. Ten minutes later, he called Vick.
Chapter 31
Fucking DuCharme.
He hadn’t been satisfied to appear on local TV, and smear Vick’s reputation. He’d gone the extra mile, and was doing interviews with the talking heads on CNN. Tonight at eight, he’d be chatting with Nancy Grace. He was milking this for all it was worth.
Vick sat in her bathrobe and stared at the TV in her apartment in downtown Miami. Her unit was on the twelfth floor of a towering building built during the real estate craze. Great views, everything brand spanking new, and only a handful of renters. There had been break-ins, with people robbed at gunpoint. She kept a gun in every room.
The commercial break was over, and DuCharme was back. He had to know the world of trouble that Vick was in, yet didn’t seem to care. She’d been placed on paid leave along with the other members of her team from last night’s botched sting. There would be an internal review, plus a hearing where she’d have to face a panel and explain why things had gone so terribly wrong. She’d be lucky to keep her job. Even if she did stay, her career would never be the same.
DuCharme was speaking. She hit the Volume button on the remote.
“The FBI did not handle this right,” the detective said.
“In your opinion, what did the FBI do that was wrong?” the CNN interviewer asked.
“The agent in charge, Rachel Vick, should not have handled the case,” DuCharme replied. “She was infatuated with the kidnaping victim.”
“Did this cloud her judgement?” the interviewer asked.
“Yes, absolutely.”
A photograph of Wayne Ladd appeared on the screen. Wayne was at the beach with his friends, and had his shirt off. He was built like a gymnast, without an ounce of fat, and rock hard abs. It was hard not to be infatuated with him, Vick thought.
DuCharme returned to the screen.
“Will you be taking over the case now that Special Agent Vick has been suspended?” the interviewer asked.
Vick grabbed her slipper off her foot and threw it at the screen. “I wasn’t suspended you fucking morons!”
“Yes,” DuCharme said. “The case is now solely mine.”
“Good luck,” the interviewer said.
Vick stormed into her kitchen. Opening the cabinet, she took out a pile of dinner plates, and began throwing them onto the floor. Her chest was heaving and her heart was racing a hundred miles an hour. She didn’t need a crystal ball to see what was going to happen next. DuCharme would royally screw up the investigation, and Wayne Ladd would end up dead, just like Mr. Clean’s previous victims.
The phone rang. She threw last plate onto the floor and answered it.
“Hello,” she said breathlessly.
“Rachel? This is Ken. You okay?”
“Just great. How about you?”
“It’s been a rough morning. I have a new lead on Mr. Clean for you.”
“I’m off the case. Sitting at home watching myself get crucified on TV.”
“Turn off the TV and get back to work,” Linderman said.
“But I’m off the case.”
“No, you’re not. We’re going to crack this, Rachel.”
“We are?”
“Yes. Take this information I’m about to give you, and figure out who Mr. Clean is. Crutch did, and he’s sitting in a prison.”
“But I’m on leave. I could get fired.”
“No one’s going to fire you. I’ll make sure of that. Crack this puzzle, and you’ll be a hero. There are second acts in the FBI.”
Vick crossed the kitchen hearing the broken plates crack beneath her slippers. She sat down at the breakfast nook and ran her hand through her hair. Had Linderman been standing in the kitchen, she would have thrown her arms around him, and kissed him.
“What’s the information?” she asked.
“In Crutch’s cell were index cards he used to profile fifteen active serial killers. One of them was Mr. Clean. At the bottom of the card he wrote. “Can’t get enough of his victims. Just like SOS’. That led Crutch to figuring out who Mr. Clean was, and contacting him.”
“Was SOS in caps?” Vick asked.