by Julie Bozza
“Something to look forward to.”
“You’d agree any of the restaurants would be preferable to my cooking.”
Albert nodded. “I’ll be ninety minutes.” He turned away, and closed the door between them.
Under the circumstances, it was inevitable that Albert wouldn’t sleep well. As it happened, he didn’t sleep at all. At first, as he lay awake in the darkness of Ash’s apartment, Albert went over the autopsy and tests he’d just performed, re-considering each detail. He’d been thorough at the time but with the benefit of hindsight, he jotted a few extra notes on the pad he kept in his case.
After that, he thought through the little he knew about the first Georgia case, and compared it to the three bodies Ash had found in Colorado. There were enough similarities to make investigation worthwhile, if the few early items of information were facts. It was amazing how many errors and assumptions and embellishments were passed on as fact, especially this early in a case, with everyone taking an interest and expressing an opinion, with the community crying for quick and easy answers, and the press baying for sensation.
Then Albert considered Fletcher’s apartment, which was everything he had expected: adequate but not well-designed. It consisted of one large room, with an inconvenient kitchen tucked away up one end, and only the bedroom and bathroom separate to the main living area. Fletcher wouldn’t be comfortable without plenty of space around him, such as this large, open-plan room. In fact, Albert suspected he’d find a view of the mountains from the main windows once the sun rose. The few possessions Fletcher had collected over time were scattered randomly throughout the place, as if Fletcher forever had his mind on higher matters. No doubt he’d slept on the sofa bed for years because he’d simply not wanted the bother of buying himself a proper bed. The overall impression was messy, though not unclean and hardly cluttered; certainly as shabby, though not as disarmingly charming, as Fletcher himself.
That brought Albert to the other current vital issue. Fletcher Ash was a room away, lying asleep and vulnerable in his own bed, no doubt untidily sprawled in rumpled sheets, just as he’d used to sleep where Albert now lay. Ridiculous, how provocative that image was, when Albert had accepted from the start that Ash was not and would never be available to him.
He had decided on restraint almost ten years ago, in a New York hotel room, following an unexpectedly honest and tawdry encounter with a beautiful woman. But that resolve was being sorely tested by this unexpected turn of events. Albert hadn’t thought he would fall in love, as witless teenagers were prone to do, and suffer all the mundane and petty defeats it brought. Hadn’t thought there would be someone who could have such a glorious, frightening effect on him both physically and emotionally, who could threaten the order of his life. Who could so easily read him, and yet who must remain oblivious to this disaster. Surely it wouldn’t be long before the intensity of his reactions faded and this problem resolved itself. It couldn’t be much longer; he’d already survived the first weeks of it.
The phone rang at two-thirty in the morning, interrupting the pointless speculation. Albert let it ring a second time, heard Ash groan from the other room. The rustle of bed clothes, uncoordinated footsteps, the door being opened. A third and fourth ring, while Fletcher blearily muttered, “Where is the damned thing? Hello.” Then, “Caroline. What’s the time?”
Albert sat up, swung his legs off the bed, stared fixedly at the opposite wall.
“All right … Yeah?” Silence for a while. “Yeah, that’s good … Do we have to? Okay, okay, I’ll see you soon.” Fletcher groaned again as he hung up. “You awake, Albert?”
“I could hardly have slept through that.”
“The police have made the arrests already.”
“What arrests?”
Ash was stumbling into the kitchen. “I need coffee. Caroline wants me at the office - you, too. We’ll have to go straight to the airport from there.”
Albert repeated impatiently, “What arrests, Ash?”
“The woman’s ex-boyfriend, and a mate of his.”
“Based on what?” Albert stood, reached for his clothes. On second thoughts, he put them aside, and began folding up the bed linen instead.
“Your transcript. Seems a cop had questioned the ex and your description fitted perfectly. Uncanny, he called it. So the cop goes down and sees the carpet you’d identified in the back of the guy’s van, and tells him an expert from Washington has fingered him long distance, and it was all over bar the sobbing confessions.” Ash was busy rubbing his temples, but spared Albert a humorless grin. “He and the mate are each saying it was the other’s idea, mind you.”
“You needed me to solve this common little crime?”
“I guess so. Let’s have some light in here.”
As the darkness fled, Albert looked across at the man before he could stop himself. He’d never seen Fletcher in less than his weekend uniform of a baggy T-shirt, jeans and sneakers before - now he was bare-chested and bare-footed. The torso was slim but with well-defined muscles and broad across the shoulders. Pale creamy skin. A dusting of dark hair, with a concentration of it above his breastbone shaped like a stylized flame. And below all that was a pair of old, washed-out, poorly-darned flannel pajama bottoms.
“What elegant night attire,” Albert commented.
“These terrible things.” Fletcher peered down as if he hadn’t examined them closely for years. “Sort of like a security blanket. I can’t throw them away.”
“You’re pathetic, Ash.”
“I know.” But the grin this time was far brighter than the dazzling kitchen lights. “And you haven’t even seen my teddy bear yet.”
Albert shook his head, overtly in despair of Fletcher, but privately at the craziness of his situation. Surely there was someone else in the world with whom it would have been sensible to fall in love.
“You don’t want coffee, I suppose. Wouldn’t want to waste a good brew on you.”
“Quite. But if you’ve been organized enough to buy some eggs and butter, I’ll cook breakfast while you shower.”
“Great. It’s all in the fridge.” Ash headed for the bathroom, turned back with his hand on the doorknob, about to say something.
Albert was caught taking in the sight of a fine pair of shoulder-blades. He stared at Fletcher, stony.
“Sorry,” Ash murmured.
“For what?” Albert bit.
But Fletcher slipped behind the door, shut it firmly.
Albert pushed the whole awful thing aside, angry at too many things to even begin to name, and started preparing the food. But even that, a formerly simple and enjoyable process, was now tainted and complex - because Albert could only be aware that soon Ash would eat this food, would derive comfort and satisfaction from it. He whisked the eggs, furious.
“You get credits for this one,” Caroline Thornton said. Ash, with Albert in tow, had finally tracked Thornton down in the corridor outside the office of the Special Agent in Charge, so they were speaking in whispers, hurried because they were running late for the plane.
“Why?” Ash returned. “Albert did the hard work, pointed them in the right direction.”
Albert shrugged as Fletcher glanced back at him. What did he care?
“You got him here,” Thornton was saying. “I never said any of this was fair. Now, go to Georgia, if that’s what you want - but you remember those credits get used up damn quickly in the Bureau. You’ve got two days, and the weekend’s all yours, but you’ve got no jurisdiction, all right?”
“It’s not all right, Caroline. That man is getting away with -”
“I know. But you know you’re out on a limb with this. I’ll do what I can, but it won’t be much.”
Ash appeared unable to decide whether to rage or cry. His hands bunched into useless fists, then were shoved into his trouser pockets.
“Come on, Ash,” Albert said, not bothering to lower his voice. “Either prove them wrong, or quit sulking about it.”
Thornton grimaced. “You go do what you can with what you’ve got.”
“I tell you, I’ve never been so angry.”
“I know, okay? Now, get going or you’ll miss your plane.”
“Yeah.” He walked off.
Albert slid on his dark glasses and followed him. He was spending far too much time chasing after this man; literally, if not figuratively. “I’ll drive,” he said once he’d caught up.
Fletcher was striding through the foyer. “Whatever. You realize you were just insulted?”
“Kind of you to notice,” Albert replied. He didn’t care for other people’s opinions, hadn’t for years. With one exception that he made every effort to minimize.
The air outside was bitterly cold and the sky, paling towards dawn, looked dirty.
“I don’t suppose you’d want an apology. I could shame it out of her easily enough, especially after all the help you just gave us.”
“Forget it.”
Sitting back in the passenger seat, resting his head and closing his eyes, Ash directed, “First right, second left, it’s all signposted from there.”
“Yes.” Silence. Then Albert said, “Get a grip on yourself before we reach Georgia. You’re behaving like a child.”
“Oh, don’t you start in on me again.”
“You’ve got one chance at this, Ash, and you’re set to ruin it. To use a particularly picturesque expression, you’re going off half-cocked. You don’t know enough yet, neither of us do, to be sure this is the same man. If it isn’t, you’ve put yourself back in the red when it comes to credits.”
“When I was a kid, I thought the FBI would be, I don’t know, nobler and braver than this.”
“So Hoover was good at public relations. But it was a well-constructed lie. The Bureau isn’t like the movies and agents aren’t all James Stewart.”
“If it’s such a persuasive lie, it has to have some basis in truth.”
“He had good people working for him, and he accomplished good things amongst all the dross. But he wouldn’t have recruited you.”
“No, my suits don’t fit well enough.” Fletcher offered him a smile, then, “Thanks for getting this other case solved so quickly.”
“Any half decent medical examiner could have done the same.”
“Modesty, Albert?” Ash laughed. “How unexpected.”
“If I valued the currency I’d take credits for the difficult cases.”
“Look, I’m sorry. Again. I hate feeling so … impotent.”
“This is getting tiresome, Ash.”
“Okay.” The man sighed. “You know, you’re the last person I can afford to alienate.”
Albert stared ahead at the road, hoping the pre-dawn light and the dark glasses hid enough of his reaction. He used to admire Fletcher’s perceptions. Now he was inclined to hate them.
“And I’m not just talking about the case.”
No further declarations, no explanations. Fletcher turned away to the side window, appeared to drop off into a doze. But Albert didn’t want to know what the man had meant, didn’t want any of it to have been said. He especially didn’t want to love this man. It was a pity that he seemed to have little choice in the matter.
There was a high wind tattering the clouds and soughing the highest branches of the pine trees, but it was quiet on the ground, a contrast that created a pregnant atmosphere. Ash was crouched down by the gravesite, completely still, as if lost in thought. Albert had seen him like this before - the man was paying far more attention than you would assume from his appearance, taking in details that others often missed. And then there were the less exact matters Fletcher was drawing on. A lot of law enforcement people liked to visit a crime site to get a feel for it but Ash seemed to take that one step further, somehow gathering up the offender’s feel for the place instead. Albert wasn’t sure that he believed in this ability but he had seen too many of Fletcher’s predictions proven true to be able to dismiss it entirely. And he would be the first to assert that humanity usually wasted the bulk of its potential.
Rather than continue to stare at Ash, Albert gazed around the site. It seemed to have been chosen at random, with short term convenience rather than long term safety in mind, being only a few yards from a dirt track and within hailing distance of a lumberyard. The trees hid it to some extent: even though they were widely spaced and the branches began at least six feet up the trunks, the undulating ground limited the possible range of vision. There were few other plants; just bare dirt and years of dead pine needles.
The cop who was escorting them at last broke the silence. “This one wasn’t planned,” Alanna Roberts said. “Not like your lot in Colorado.”
Ash stirred and looked up at the woman. “He’s clever enough to try to throw us off like that,” he said.
“But these types stick to the same MO, get themselves fixated on a particular way of doing the job. That’s the whole point.”
“Young white male, tortured, slowly killed, sexually assaulted, anal penetration. Body left naked, no jewelry or clothes. Buried facedown, in a forest.” Fletcher listed these facts as if they were a litany he had repeated a hundred times. “You tell me, Alanna.”
“Your lot were killed differently, which is a very significant point. These bled to death and yours were strangled. I won’t deny there are similarities but there’re too many differences.”
“The differences are more superficial than the similarities.”
“You can’t call the cause of death superficial. And it’s been a long while,” Roberts said, “maybe two years between your case and this one. What’s your man been doing in the meantime?”
“I don’t know. But two years before the Colorado case, there were four murders in Wyoming, still unsolved, that also bear similarities.”
“You’re seriously suggesting a cycle of two years? That’s too long. Now, every full moon, I’d believe, or every Christmas …”
Ash didn’t smile.
“And the body count is going down, rather than escalating.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you to do everything you can to solve this, Alanna. But I’m afraid there are clues we’ll miss if we treat each case separately.”
“Or, if you’re wrong, it will all get confused, jumbled in together, and we’ll never sort it out.”
“Yes, I see that.” But he obviously didn’t like it or agree with it.
“What about the missing girlfriend? Stacey Dixon. You don’t have a parallel for that.”
“No, we don’t.” Ash looked up at Albert. His expression was relatively bland, but Albert could read the defeat.
“I’ll keep you appraised of any developments,” Roberts said.
“Thank you. And if you need FBI resources, call me.”
“Of course.”
“One favor - your list of suspects. Once it’s compiled, why don’t you let me compare it to mine?”
The woman grimaced. “Look, we’ve had police in from all over the country, angling for a piece of the pie, trying to get a solution to whatever’s outstanding on their own books. You’re as convincing as any of them, Fletch, but that’s a big ask. I can’t let the world know names of men who are most likely innocent.”
“I know what I’m asking. I could give you my list, perhaps, and you could see if there are any matches.”
“How many did you have?”
“Fifteen-hundred. And nothing to tie any of them with more than one of the victims, if that. You know how it is - some were included just because of the cars they drove.”
“Send me the ones who have moved out of Colorado, perhaps.”
“Thanks, Alanna.”
“I have to tell you, we’re going to do this one alone for now, keep it within Georgia. You understand, Fletch.”
Albert waited out the silence. True to his word, Ash had been entirely more reasonable than in Colorado, if quietly persistent. Albert wondered which was preferable: Ash trusting Albert enough to indulge himself, to be op
en and vulnerable; or Ash behaving like a responsible adult? It seemed strange to Albert to have fallen for a man who could exhibit so little restraint. And yet wasn’t it a sign of Ash’s friendship that he wouldn’t bother controlling his impulses in Albert’s company?
Frowning, Albert looked around, saw Roberts walking back to her car. He hated this: how his thoughts rambled, how consideration of Fletcher Ash could distract him at the most inopportune moments. A complete waste of energy. But he realized there was no way to undo the damage. He could only hope to minimize its effects, give it the necessary time to wear off.
Ash was circling the area, wandering, casting his glance over everything in the vicinity.