The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  To make it all worse, Albert could hardly complain about the gift he was presented with on the Saturday morning after his birthday: a Blaupunkt CD player for the car. In reply to Fletcher’s inquiries, Albert had expressed something about it being quite satisfactory, and then he’d spent ninety minutes installing the machine in the Saab. He’d taken Ash for a drive through the neighboring countryside, an indulgence with no purpose other than to listen to Mozart’s Mass in C Minor and Requiem - or, as Ash insisted, Mozart’s Great Mass and Terrific Requiem. Although Albert didn’t expect Fletcher to appreciate the somber music, the younger man had slowly begun to enjoy himself. They had eaten a late lunch together at an adequate restaurant, over which they’d conducted a moderately intelligent conversation. In all, a pleasant if frivolous day.

  Though nothing could compensate for Fletcher asking, “Who’s Elliott Meyer?”

  The words, innocent enough on Fletcher’s part, were cold numbing fear to Albert. Fletcher had loitered over coffee on the Friday evening, apparently minding his own business - but of course he was observant enough to notice the unusual occurrence of Albert receiving a personal letter, of Albert skimming through six pages of close handwriting. Forever irrepressibly curious, Fletcher had picked up the envelope in order to read the return address, and asked the inevitable.

  It was a pity that some of the qualities Albert most admired in the man - those very qualities that made Fletcher a useful special agent - could be the most inconvenient.

  Somehow, though Albert couldn’t now remember the words he’d used, he’d indicated that Fletcher’s interest was not welcome, that the whole topic was off limits. But even though Ash had let the matter go, his curiosity was aroused, and Albert knew exactly how persistent that curiosity could be. Added to which, it was hardly a difficult conclusion for Fletcher to reach, that Elliott was family, indeed the only family member with whom Albert had any contact anymore. And Albert knew very well, without Fletcher saying much, that the younger man would be fascinated to learn more of Albert’s background.

  Elliott’s annual letter contained family news and gossip, in which Albert had no interest. As usual, however, Elliott recounted a few stories and images of his long-dead cousin, Albert’s father Miles, and of his mother Rebecca, some of his own and some from other people. Albert knew Elliott only did this to ensure Albert would read the letters; nevertheless, he couldn’t find it in him to resist the man’s manipulation.

  Under Fletcher’s gaze, which was watchful though the man pretended nonchalance, Albert committed to memory those few scraps of information about his parents, then returned the letter to its envelope, intending to throw the lot out. But then he was seized with fear that Fletcher would go so far as retrieving it from the trash and reading it without permission. Standard operating procedure under Hoover, the man might say, providing a justification that was no justification at all.

  Albert had taken the damned thing into his study and locked it away. Then, on the following Monday once Fletcher was safely gone, he’d finally been able to throw the letter away.

  Damn Fletcher Ash. And damn Elliott Meyer! Albert had insisted on going his own way when he was accepted at college just before his sixteenth birthday. Elliott, who’d been his guardian for five years, had only agreed on the condition that they exchange letters every October. Twenty-one letters later, and Elliott still hadn’t given up. Why was Albert cursed with such persistent presences in his life?

  He put the impossible, unpalatable question aside and, after reading another column of the puerile article on hypostasis, he managed to focus on work again rather than Fletcher Ash or his own dissatisfactions. The rest of his dinner, however, he wrapped securely and placed in the fridge for the next day.

  The phone rang on cue the following evening and Albert briefly considered not answering it. That would, however, be an evasion and, as such, should be beneath him. He took a moment to reflect that Fletcher obviously wanted more from this relationship than Albert was in any position to give. Would he have been capable of meeting the man’s expectations if he’d fallen for Ash ten years ago? Fifteen or twenty?

  He took a breath and picked up the handset. “Sterne.”

  “It’s me. I think I found one.”

  “Found one what?” Though Albert knew perfectly well, from Fletcher’s urgency if nothing else. He picked up the pen by the phone, ready to jot down any notes.

  “A possible victim,” Fletcher was explaining, exasperated. It seemed he was too focused to even notice this opportunity for the meaningless repartee and teasing that often passed for personal conversation between them. “In the latest bundle from Mac - you know he sends me newspaper clippings and police reports once a week. He received this one yesterday, sent it up with all the latest in the overnight bag. I only just had a chance to read it.”

  “Tell me.” Sometimes, if in Mac’s limited judgment a case was particularly significant, the Irishman even braved the probability of cadavers and insults in the forensic labs to bring Albert a copy as well. For whatever reason, that hadn’t happened this time.

  “Young unidentified teenage male, found buried facedown in the forests outside Portland, Oregon, died maybe six weeks ago. They’re not quite sure on the cause of death - it’s definitely asphyxia, though the injuries aren’t related, so it doesn’t look like manual strangulation.”

  “Ligature strangulation,” Albert suggested, “with something soft, a scarf for instance, or with padding, so it wouldn’t leave external marks. Or suffocation with a pillow. There are other options, but if this is the man you’re after, those seem most likely.”

  “That’s good,” Fletcher said, distractedly. He was apparently writing this down.

  For the sake of his professionalism, Albert had to add, “Maybe I should remind you I’m simply suggesting what you might look for that’s consistent with your pet murderer. It doesn’t seem likely, for instance, that he would suffocate the boy by confining him in an airless compartment, such as a cupboard.”

  “Couldn’t rape the boy as he died if he did that, could he?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Speaking of which, it appears there was penetrative sexual activity, and there’s a lot of severe bruising, though the injuries aren’t as comprehensive as the victims in Georgia.”

  “But in Georgia, the offender intended that the boys die as a direct result of their injuries. The Colorado victims, and this one if it’s his, he tortured and raped first, before killing them.”

  “You think it’s the same man?”

  “I hardly have enough information to draw that conclusion yet. You certainly seem to believe so.”

  “It feels right, and it’s the right timing. It’s just over two years since Mitchell Brown, Philip Rohan and Stacey Dixon died in Georgia. This man has to have been killing again. I think the Oregon police are going to find another couple of bodies with similar MO.”

  “Given the timing, your expectations might be leading you astray. Your basic assumption is that he’s been killing again, but anything could have happened in the intervening period.”

  “Like what?”

  “He could be incarcerated for, or under suspicion of, another offence; he could have died by accident, murder, suicide or natural causes; he might be ill or incapacitated; he might have finished whatever it was he thought he was doing, or simply lost his taste for it. Ninety-nine percent of law enforcement officers would assume that one of those things had happened over that length of time, and close the case.”

  “I almost did, too, after the Colorado cases. But that’s what makes our guy so damned clever.”

  “Wasn’t there a serial killer about ten years ago who turned himself in because he felt it had become a waste of time?”

  “You’re thinking of the one who surrendered in 1973. He said his original purpose was gone once he’d worked around to killing his mother.” Fletcher added more forcefully, “But this one won’t ever lose the taste for it.”

  “Once
again, you’re projecting your warped intuition onto this man’s behavior.”

  A pause before Fletcher continued, enthusiasm only slightly abated, “You’re right, I have to be careful not to make assumptions. It just feels so right sometimes, it fits so well - but I must always trace that back to whether it’s based in fact or feeling.”

  “Yes,” Albert said. He’d forgotten how devastatingly honest Ash could be about himself. But that wasn’t a reason, in itself, to believe everything the man said.

  “This guy, with his handful of killings in each state every two years - he’s not finished yet, he could keep doing this for a long time. He’s still in control of it. We have to worry about when it escalates, gets beyond him. Once he breaks out of his pattern, anything goes.”

  “But surely he won’t break out of the pattern very far. Which is why no one believes your theories, when something as central as the cause of death is different in each case.”

  “I know, I know.” The younger man sighed. “Okay, I guess we have to treat Oregon as just another option for now.”

  They briefly ran through the other options, which were looking less and less likely. There had been a body found in Texas that broadly fitted the MO Fletcher was looking for, but the boy had been killed almost four months before the two years was up, with no other bodies found since then. Another one had been found in Georgia. Fletcher wouldn’t rule it out, on the grounds that the man was more than capable of that sort of double-think, but again there were no related cases during that time. There had also been a possibility in Arizona but an arrest had been made within the last few days. Ash was apparently sickened that the alleged offender had been the victim’s best friend.

  “It happens,” was Albert’s offhanded comment.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Don’t be revolting. There is, far more often than not, a close link between the murderer and the victim.”

  “No need to lecture me, Albert, that’s partly how I’m ruling most of these cases out.”

  Fletcher rarely took Albert’s barbs that seriously these days. Albert let a beat go by before asking, “Are you going to Oregon?”

  “Not yet. Caroline said she’ll approve the travel if they find a second body with the same MO.” Fletcher laughed. “She probably only agreed in order to shut me up.”

  “No doubt. Let me know, and I’ll accompany you.”

  “I was hoping you would. Any chance of Jefferson considering it official business?”

  “Highly improbable. I’ll use some of my rostered days off.”

  “Thanks, Albert.” A pause. “Let me pay the airfare.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Silence again. Fletcher, who had finally begun to suspect that Albert was not solely dependent on his salary, seemed to be on the brink of asking something that would no doubt be difficult to answer. But all he ended up saying was, “If nothing more happens in Oregon, is it still okay for me to visit for the weekend?”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t forget the roulade.” Then Fletcher said goodbye and hung up the phone.

  After a moment, Albert put the handset down. He hated lame and drawn-out farewells, as Fletcher knew. But this one felt lame and abrupt, and Fletcher was obviously unhappy, probably disturbed at this new evidence of what he perceived to be his failure. And Albert couldn’t offer anything to help, especially over the phone. He sighed and went to his study, where he tried to lose himself in the latest British research on the possibility of DNA profiling, which was of course exactly what Fletcher needed to prove that the same offender had committed all these crimes. But it appeared that the technique wouldn’t be available for months, if not years.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WASHINGTON DC

  OCTOBER 1984

  The drive from the airport was accompanied by a CD, loudly played, of something called Carmina Burana. Fletch listened to it with more than a little surprise. The first part was suitably dark and ominously dramatic. But then, “What’s this next bit about?”

  “It is called Primo vere, or Spring.”

  It was light and joyous and sexy, and didn’t seem to suit Albert’s dour demeanor at all. “This is lovely.”

  “Sublime,” Albert informed him, though he seemed totally unaffected by the burgeoning music.

  For a few minutes, within the car at least, fall was banished and spring was celebrated. Fletch thought of fresh green leaves and soft warm air, of infinitely clear blue skies and the urge to share all that joy with another human being. His hand itched to slide over to rest on Albert’s thigh - which Albert would be furious at, even though no one could possibly see them.

  To distract himself, Fletcher concentrated again on the music. Spring’s joy had ended, and the dark had returned. This part was grim and boisterous, deep male voices at times turning sharp and discordant. “Tell me about this,” Fletch asked. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  And for the rest of the journey, Albert did so, though he fell silent again as soon as they reached home. Albert headed directly to the kitchen.

  Fletch trailed after him, a wry twist to his smile. “When I said I missed your cooking,” he murmured, “it is true that I missed your cooking as well.”

  Albert just stared at him for a moment, before saying sardonically, “Don’t feel shy, Ash, and don’t let taste or discretion restrain you - just come right out of your shell and ask for sex if that’s what you want.”

  Fletcher’s smile grew. “You could come help me unpack,” he suggested.

  “You need assistance with the contents of one rather small overnight bag?”

  But Albert was already approaching him, taking Fletch by the hand to lead him to Albert’s bedroom.

  The air was so crisp and clear that Fletch felt like he was floating in champagne. It had been easy to let go, exhilarating to leave the struggle behind. He grinned now, spread his arms wide and arched to lean back into the careless freedom of it.

  A sheer wall of rock sped away to the sky, and the first doubt chilled him. Below, far away but noticeably closer every second, water foamed over rocks in a narrow gorge. He’d known it was there and yet he hadn’t wanted to bother hanging on or climbing those last few feet to safety, hadn’t wanted to make the effort. A growl shaped his mouth into something savage. Why did he always do this to himself?

  There were arms snaring him, suddenly, from close behind; one round his shoulders and the other round his waist. His name urgently spoken. “Ash.”

  Fletch twisted, trying to escape this person weighing him down. Plummeting out of the sunlight and into the cold shadows, the sound of rapids echoing, destroying the last illusion of peace. “No!”

  “Ash. Wake up.”

  It was completely dark. Fletch lay, wary and still, breath heaving. He was in a bed. Some internal voice was telling him it was okay now, it had just been another dream, but his sense of danger was having trouble catching up with his intellect.

  “Are you all right?” The tone was of enforced patience.

  Albert. Fletch was in Albert’s bed, lying in Albert’s embrace. They had only been lovers for a couple of months and had spent far less than half of those nights together, but already they fell naturally into this position for sleep: Fletch lying back against Albert, who held him loosely. On the few occasions Fletch had woken first, he’d found Albert had buried his face in Fletch’s hair, mouth at the nape of Fletcher’s neck.

  “Ash?”

  “Yeah,” Fletch muttered, “I’m all right.”

  “This is usual for you, is it? Nightmares every time you fall asleep.”

  “Not every time.”

  “You don’t always wake up,” Albert informed him. “You don’t remember them all.”

  “Really?” Fletch brought his hands to Albert’s, so he was held in a double embrace as he considered this troubling thought. He had no reason to doubt Albert’s observations, though he knew he wasn’t supposed to have realized that Albert rar
ely slept a full night. “It’s this waiting that’s getting to me,” he said at last, “this waiting for another boy to die. Ever since the two years were up, I’ve known that he’s out there killing and that I didn’t stop him. All I can do is wait for another death and hope to all I believe in that I get him this time.”

  “Blaming yourself is pointless and counterproductive. Not to mention self-indulgent.”

  “You’re right, absolutely right.”

  “Well?”

  “I can see your logic, I know intellectually that you’re right. But that doesn’t mean that my heart or my conscience know it.” Fletch sighed. “We’ve been over this a thousand times, Albert, and we never agree. Can’t you just accept how I feel?”