by Julie Bozza
“Still convinced?” Albert asked.
“Even more so. Though I can’t justify it enough to satisfy anyone but you.” Then he stopped and asked, “Unless Alanna’s talked you out of believing in me? It’s so frustrating: I agree with every word she says, I’d think exactly the same thing if I were in her shoes, but she’s wrong.”
Albert shrugged this off. “We’ll monitor their progress.”
“Good. Thanks.” He walked closer, casting one last glance around the area. Then he focused on Albert. “Come on, then, this is the fun bit. Alanna’s taking us to the morgue.”
“Are you attempting to worry me, Ash?”
The younger man just grinned.
“Mitchell Brown,” Roberts said as the morgue attendant pulled one of the drawers out. “I knew this boy. Mitch would have gone down fighting.”
“He might have injured the offender in a struggle?” Ash asked.
“Hell, yeah. He gave me a black eye once.” Then she sighed and added, “I don’t know. The bastard must have tied him up fairly quickly, or cuffed him. But I bet Mitch left his mark.”
“When did you win the black eye?”
“Mitch had been drinking, under age. He was quite special, you know the sort - they’re full of possibilities, but could go either way. You have to watch them through the teenage years, minimize the trouble they cause, but you step on them too hard and you send them off in the wrong direction.”
“I know the type,” Ash said.
“I think Mitch was beginning to write, poetry and what-have-you. Pity we’ll never know what he might have achieved.”
Albert said, “From the reports, the other victim is beaten just as badly. You’re not suggesting Brown sustained more injuries because it’s likely he fought back?”
Roberts shook her head, expression troubled. “On balance, no. That was the offender’s MO.”
Shutting them out, Albert concentrated on a visual examination of the corpse. There was nothing he could see under these conditions that hadn’t been in the report. And, given the obvious extent of the injuries and the advanced state of decay, he could understand the difficulties the medical examiner had in handling the internal organs. He would have far preferred to have dealt with this one himself.
“No traces of the offender except his semen,” Albert said.
“Nothing,” Roberts confirmed.
“There has to be something.”
Fletcher said, “That’s what we need, of course. Something to match him up with ours.”
“They were careful, sifted the soil around the body. But there wasn’t anything to find. And you would have read that the offender’s a non-secretor.”
“So was ours,” Ash said. “Which limits the search to twenty or thirty percent of the population.”
“That’s not proof the cases are connected, Fletch,” said Roberts. “And we need a suspect first, before we can try to eliminate him on those grounds.”
“Agreed. But doesn’t it strike you as odd, in a case that otherwise seems disorganized, superficially at least, that the offender took such great care not to leave trace evidence?”
“A combination of luck and the time that’s passed could have the same result.”
Albert said, “Show me the other body.”
While the attendant pushed Mitchell Brown back into cold storage, Ash muttered, “Offender. There has to be a better description.” He was staring sightlessly at the rows and rows of steel drawers. “This doesn’t offend me - it outrages me, horrifies me.”
Roberts was nodding, saying, “I know.” She shared a sympathetic smile with him.
Turning to the second body, Albert rolled his eyes in exasperation. But he couldn’t prevent a stab of jealousy at the easy understanding between Fletcher and this woman. He hated being reduced to begrudging Ash a new friend.
Outside, Ash seemed revitalized by the crisp, pale sunlight. “We drew a blank,” he said, though he had apparently accepted that.
“No, we didn’t,” Albert disagreed.
“I suppose time will catch up with this man, even if we don’t. But what does he get away with meanwhile?”
“If you’re right, we have sixteen or seventeen months.”
“And if I’m wrong? I might have missed some cases for the intervening years.”
“You’ve done what you could.”
“Not quite.” And Fletcher grinned at him. “Sorry, but I’m coming to Washington with you.”
CHAPTER NINE
WASHINGTON DC
APRIL 1983
Perhaps he shouldn’t have pushed his luck and invited himself to Albert’s for dinner. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, fair: they were both tired after too little sleep and too much tragedy; and they were both used to living alone. Albert had withdrawn, even further than required by his usual policy of non-involvement, and no doubt that was because he’d had enough of Fletcher’s company for now. Usually they talked when they were together over a meal like this: discussions and disagreements about cases and the Bureau, about Fletcher specifically and people in general. Fletcher enjoyed being challenged by and learning from this man’s conversation.
But even Albert’s silence was preferable to Fletcher’s own thoughts tonight. Albert’s undemanding company and his cooking always made Fletch feel at home because they echoed his memories of Harley. The echoes were indirect, perhaps, for where Albert was precise, Harley was slapdash, but they both knew how to make the best of food.
Fletcher took another long swallow of the white wine he’d bought on the way here. It was going down all too easily, and of course Albert didn’t drink alcohol, so Fletch had the whole bottle to himself.
It helped take his mind off the case, at any rate. Instead, he considered Albert. Because Fletch wanted to put the guilt behind him - not forget it, but get beyond it - the guilt at the results of his failure. More immediately, he wished the images of Mitch, with his dark gold curls, and young Philip would quit haunting him. He sighed. Alanna was looking for someone who liked his young men strong and blond but Fletch knew his offender had broader tastes than that.
Albert sat across from him, distracted and yet purposeful. Albert never did anything, wore any expression, that wasn’t wholly focused and deliberate. There was a grace to him because of it, that might otherwise never have developed because the man was normally devoid of self-consciousness. Even now, with his thoughts miles away, Albert looked intent.
It seemed the only thing in the world that Albert found disconcerting was his partiality for Fletcher. Of course, Fletch couldn’t deny he was extremely flattered by such an unanticipated turn of events but he was sorry Albert was so perturbed by it. In fact, the man seemed to be unhappier and more ill-at-ease each time Fletch saw him. And still there was nothing Fletcher could, in all conscience, do for him.
It was tempting to try to include the sexual in their friendship, to broaden the relationship beyond the subliminal sensuality that blessed any close friends. Ash couldn’t deny a few speculative day dreams along those lines. He’d long been curious about what sex would be like between two men, figured everyone at least wondered. And here was Albert, dependable and surprising, and in love with Fletcher. It was tempting to experiment with this damned interesting idea, with this attractive and available man, even though it was guaranteed to do far more harm than good.
Albert probably wouldn’t let it happen, even if Fletch did try. He had the stubbornness to deny himself. And the passion to hate Fletcher if the younger man forced the issue. That would be a disaster, even compared to muddling along as they were now.
Finding his glass empty, Fletcher poured himself more wine. It wasn’t an answer, but it would do.
And it got him out of the drying up. One near-slip with a wet plate and Albert relieved him of further duties. “Pathetic, Ash,” was the comment. “But I suppose a harmless drunk is preferable to a ranting child.”
“Who are you calling harmless?” Fletch retorted. He swallowed the rest of
the wine, managed to safely return the glass to the kitchen, then tottered back to stretch out on the sofa.
Home. Or a more than reasonable substitute for it.
Fletch was dimly aware that it was late when he woke. His more immediate concerns were an insistent bladder, a skull protesting at what it contained, and a tortured spine. Then there was the distraction of the smell of brewing coffee. Which to deal with first?
After some consideration, logic dictated that he stand and stretch. Fletcher did so, momentarily tangled in an unexpected blanket. He’d been lying on Albert’s sofa, and now he was standing on Albert’s cropped sage green carpet, therefore it seemed reasonable that this was Albert’s blanket. He tried to cope with the image of Albert Sterne bothering to bring the blanket and tucking Fletch in, then put it aside. It was too early in the morning for these mind-bending ideas. Instead, he slunk into the kitchen.
The next matter that caught his attention was the full pot of hot coffee. It belatedly dawned on him that Albert didn’t drink coffee and certainly hadn’t owned a coffee-maker before now. Fletch stared at it for a moment.
And then quickly reassessed his priorities and headed for the bathroom.
A few minutes later, feeling a little more human, Fletch poured a mug of coffee and started wondering where Albert was. But that was a mystery soon solved. One of Albert’s business cards had been placed neatly on the kitchen bench beside the coffee. On the back, in Albert’s neat printing that was usually found only on forensic reports, it read, I am at headquarters. Fletcher groaned.
Albert was in his tiny office, typing away at the computer as if his fingers were trying to beat the speed of light. Fletcher smiled. One of the things he loved about Albert was his serious, energetic, determined dedication, although he was easily distracted today. Fletcher tapped quietly at the glass wall and Albert’s head whipped around to see him. His gestured invitation to enter was brusque, which was nothing new, but to the practiced eye, his expression was darker than usual. He snapped, “Good of you to put in an appearance.”
“Sorry it’s so late,” Fletcher replied. He closed the door behind him, dumped the bag he’d brought and sat down in the solitary visitor’s chair. He idly wondered how many other people had sat here; he suspected it was only a few and none by choice.
“It is just as well some of us are prepared to put in a full day’s work.”
“Actually, I was hoping that you could spare me an hour for a game of squash. Wouldn’t mind sweating copiously right now, do me the world of good.”
“What a revolting idea.”
Fletch chuckled, though he felt uneasy, and hefted the bag up to the desk. “I went through your wardrobe, I was trying to find the track pants and sweater you wear when you ride your bike, but I’ve never seen so many suits. I mean, if I didn’t know better I’d suspect you do the garden in them as well.” The words and then the smile faltered as Fletch looked across at Albert. Though the man was temporarily speechless, his whose expression seemed to ask, You did what?
“Sorry,” Fletch tried. “That was the wrong thing to do.”
“You can manage better than that, Ash. I’ve never heard such a weak and insincere apology.”
“I am sorry. I didn’t think.”
“And what are you sorry for? Invading my privacy? Abusing my trust? I should never have left you alone there.”
“All of that,” Fletch agreed, nodding. His head still hurt, and he really didn’t want to listen to this, but he should have anticipated it and not put himself or Albert in the situation. Albert must indeed be angry to talk in such clichés.
“That’s my home, Ash. Have you no respect? If it wasn’t for your physical violence this morning -”
Fletcher stared at him. “What?”
“You should have been in here, anyway. Friday is a workday in Washington, even if it isn’t in the backwoods. And didn’t you come here to progress the case you were so wound up about only yesterday?”
It was bizarre, Fletcher thought. Albert was simply sitting there, across the desk, barely raising his voice, and yet spitting out pure malice. No one out in the lab would be aware Albert was anymore furious than usual. And Fletch was just sitting there, too, taking it, because it wouldn’t be fair to give all this anger back to the man. Albert was feeling vulnerable right now. It was a compliment, really, that Albert should be so defenseless before Fletcher.
When he had the chance to interrupt, Fletch repeated, “What violence?”
“You hit me, Ash.”
“No …” Such an assertion was impossible to credit. He’d never have done such a thing. Surely not … “What do you mean?”
Silence for a moment. It was difficult to tell whether Albert looked more offended than bitter, but Fletch hoped so. “I tried to wake you from your drunken stupor this morning, and you hit me.”
“Really?” Poor Albert must have run a mile, being confronted like that. It would almost be amusing if it hadn’t hurt the man. “I’m sorry, it was completely unintentional. Maybe I was dreaming. I have bad dreams, you know.”
Either the apology was acceptable or Albert had got everything off his chest now. In any case, the man’s expression gradually settled into merely grumpy.
“I’m going for a run, if squash is out of the question, then a shower and then to work.”
“What work?”
“Records for Georgia over the past two years, anything that might be our man showing his hand. If you’re too busy, I’ll ask Mac to help.”
“Don’t be anymore ridiculous than you have to be, Ash. You need expert assistance.”
“Mac’s doing all right,” Fletch said mildly - but he meant it.
Albert rolled his eyes, turned back to his computer.
“Any chance of you working late with me tonight? I know it’s been a long couple of days, but I’d really appreciate it.”
“Of course I will,” the man snapped.
Fletch smiled at him. “Thanks.”
“Get out of here, Ash.”
Not prepared to push his luck any further, Fletcher got.
The phone rang at ten-fifteen, startling Fletch. HQ had been deathly quiet for hours. Albert reached out, barely pausing in his search of the computer records. “Sterne.” He listened for a moment, said, “Yes,” and then handed the receiver to Fletch. “It’s Roberts.”
Ash smiled. “Hello, Alanna.”
“I thought I’d find you working, Fletch.”
“And I expect you are, too.”
“Yes.”
He pictured her in her uniform, with the checked woolen jacket she wore over it, her blond hair in a long braid, her expression thoughtful. Then he thought to ask, “Is this good news, bad news, or just an excuse to chat?”
“Good and bad. We found the missing girlfriend, Stacey Dixon.”
“I suppose the bad news is she’s dead.”
“Yes. We concentrated a search around where Philip Rohan was found, along the roads in and out of the area, you know the routine. She was downstream in the river, would have been found weeks ago but she was caught in a submerged fallen tree.”
“How did she die?”
“Shot in the chest. She was fully clothed, no sign of any assault, but the similarities are that it seems her wrists were restrained for a while before she died, and it appears she and Philip were killed around the same time. Does that sound like your man?”
“You know, I think it has to be. But, whoever it is, it sounds like she got in the way, she wasn’t to his taste.”
“Yes, that’s the way I saw it. In the wrong place at the wrong time, poor kid.”
“Did you find the bullet? What sort of gun?”
“The cold-blooded bastard dug it out before dumping her.”
“But he didn’t strip her.” So he could overcome his distaste only so far. Or perhaps he wanted keepsakes from the boys, but not from Stacey. “Has anyone else shown an interest in this?”
“I haven’t called anyone else outs
ide Georgia and no one’s come forward.”
“Then I doubly appreciate you letting me know, Alanna. Does this mean I’ve convinced you?”
“No, it means you’re crazy, but I’m willing - against all my better instincts - to give you a chance.”
Fletcher laughed. “That’s the second nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks. You can leave a message for me if I’m not here.” Fletch said goodbye, hung up, then turned to fill Albert in. He went on to say, “If she wasn’t weighted down, he can’t have cared whether she’d be found right away, and he certainly didn’t care that her clothing would help identify her. With the boys, he at least gave himself some time.”