The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  Fletcher was in the cubby-hole now, poring over the transcript of an interview with the mother of the third victim they’d found - and the first to have died - Sam Doherty. He had wanted to attend the interview itself, partly because the disposal of Sam’s body had been inconsistent with the other three and Fletcher had found that the exceptions to the rules often provided the most telling evidence. However, four of the locals had insisted on conducting or observing the interview for various reasons, and a fifth member of the party wasn’t welcome on the grounds that the numbers would be too intimidating. Fletch was left with planning a separate interview, perhaps after the funeral, when he could ask about the men Sam had known, and whether any of them fitted his offender’s profile.

  Albert was supposed to be meeting him here, otherwise Fletch would have taken the reports outside into the fresh air despite the cold weather. There wasn’t even a window in sight. He hated not being able to at least see the sky. But, Fletch reminded himself, he should be grateful he was part of this investigation at all, despite the headache he could feel looming. He dug his fingers into his temples, and waited, re-reading the transcribed words for the tenth time, guessing at the meanings revealed only by tone and gesture. He’d read certain phrases so often that his imagination began suggesting ludicrous interpretations on what had no doubt been completely straightforward.

  “What kept you?” Fletch asked when Albert turned up.

  “The tests took longer than anticipated. One of the samples had been contaminated. Not by me, I hasten to add.”

  “But you got it all sorted out?” Of course he had. Fletcher grimaced in reply to Albert’s raised eyebrow, and continued, “I’ve just been going over the interview with Sam Doherty’s mother. It’s very interesting. Sam worked as an apprentice mechanic but he still lived at home. The night he disappeared he told his mother he was meeting a particular friend. The friend, however, says they hadn’t agreed to meet, though he says there was a football game on the television and Sam often turned up to watch it with him; the friend adds that Sam never missed a game. Does this sound familiar to you?”

  “Go on,” Albert prompted.

  “The only information we have so far on how this guy operates is from Andrew Harmer’s friend, Scott, in Colorado. And Sam fits in with that. I think this man identifies his victim, then asks the boy home to watch football on television, maybe offering or at least hinting at sex as well, depending on how receptive the boy is.”

  “Wasn’t it baseball in Harmer’s case?”

  “That’s what Scott said, but he didn’t know anything about sport and Drew wasn’t much better. And, remember, when we checked the programming, the only sport being televised the night Drew disappeared was football. His motivation for accepting the invitation was romance. Sam’s might be more related to watching the game. No one’s asked the mother or friend whether Sam was gay, by the way.”

  Albert considered all this, then said, “The scenario is possible. Are you going to start looking into the case files of every young man in the country who disappeared, was assaulted or died on the night of a televised football game?”

  Fletch groaned. “If Caroline would let me have the resources, perhaps I would. But I can’t even begin to do all this properly on my own.”

  “You have my help, and McIntyre’s hindrance.”

  “And I’m grateful for both, of course, though what we need is a full-blown, nationwide task force. At least he operates within certain parameters, particular timeframes, which narrows the search down - for his victims, at least.”

  He, Fletch had said, and his, and they both knew who he was referring to, though Fletcher never gave him a name or a nickname, or used one of the codes that the police and newspaper reporters in each state allotted for the sake of convenience and sensation. The most Albert did was call him Fletch’s pet serial killer.

  The Oregon people were unimaginatively calling the offender they were after the Portland Strangler, even after Sam Doherty was discovered - though they weren’t convinced, as Fletch was, that there weren’t two killers on the loose, given the differences in MO. The Georgia reporters, faced with three brutal and bloody deaths, had called their offender the Mauler, which had led to a few cartoons and jokes about the Shopping Maller. Fletch found his sense of humor didn’t extend that far. The Georgia police, knowing more about how the victims were restrained and bound, called him the Killer de Sade when they weren’t in public. And the Colorado people, four years ago, had opted for the simple Boy Killer - except in certain circles, whose prejudice was alarmingly callous, where he was known as Just Another Queer Basher.

  “I have been considering the results from the Doherty autopsy,” Albert was saying.

  Fletch found he had sunk his head to his arms, which were folded on the desk, and couldn’t remember collapsing like that. He was exhausted. “And?”

  “The radius in each arm was badly fractured, almost broken, about two-thirds along from the wrist. Due to the symmetry, I suspect that Doherty’s hands were close together, though there is no evidence that he was bound or handcuffed. Perhaps the offender held the hands together, placed the arms against something strong but fairly slim, like a metal pipe or even the edge of a heavy table, then exerted enough force to cause the injury. The result being a boy in pain who couldn’t use his arms effectively, and who was therefore easy to control.”

  “But what did he want to control the boy for?” Fletch pondered. “There’s no sign of sexual activity and it doesn’t seem like our man to put clothes back onto a naked corpse. So all he ended up doing was suffocating the boy.”

  “Perhaps he needed to shut Doherty up in a hurry, perhaps they were in danger of being found or heard.” Albert, who was still standing, put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I believe the other three bodies had been gagged at some stage. None of the victims in the other states have been, and we were therefore looking for an isolated location, or one that was secure and soundproof. But perhaps he didn’t have that luxury here in Oregon.”

  “You mean he couldn’t afford the noise this time, so perhaps we can assume that he lived in town or whatever.” The box of cards in Fletch’s head seemed about to topple into massive disorder. He clutched at his temples again, willing the headache and the chaos away. “I can’t keep all this straight.”

  “You have to, no excuses. Or I won’t listen to anymore of your theories.”

  Fletch looked up at Albert. “A hard, hard man,” he commented. Which was exactly what he needed. “Okay with you if I pass that on to Owen Ross? About he couldn’t afford the noise, I mean. I’ll tell him it was your idea.”

  “Of course you may, but there’s no need to attribute it to me.”

  “Credit where credit’s due.”

  “There’s been no match on the fingerprint.”

  Disappointment sank hopes Fletcher thought he’d already given up on. “No?”

  “It didn’t match the mother’s prints, and there was no match at HQ.”

  “So that means the man has never worked with the military or the government, and doesn’t have a criminal record.”

  “If it is the offender’s print,” Albert reminded him.

  “Yeah,” Fletcher agreed dispiritedly. “So, what are you doing next?”

  “Assisting them in identifying the fourth body and finalizing various tests.”

  “You’re a wonder and a marvel, and I have no idea what I’d do without you.”

  Impassively returning Fletch’s gaze, Albert said, “How gratifying. There must be very few people who could fully appreciate having a pet forensics expert at their beck and call.”

  Fletch, surprised at this, let a beat go past. Then he said, “I definitely appreciate it,” with all the sincerity he could muster, for that was about the closest Albert had ever come to declaring a need for Fletcher’s friendship or approval. He watched as Albert turned and left, and then he considered the man’s statement again, less interested in the compliment than in the
vulnerability it betrayed.

  The fourth victim, a twenty-year-old man named Tony Shields, was identified by chance - a friend, working in a temporary clerical job at the medical examiner’s offices, glimpsed photos of the body - rather than as a result of the forty-eight hours of solid work put in by the police and the FBI men.

  Fletcher attended the funeral, a simple graveside service. He stood just out of hearing distance, with Ross beside him identifying as many as he could of the people attending. One of the local police also took photos as unobtrusively as possible.

  It was a cold and colorless day, and everyone appeared grateful to return to the family home for lunch and a beer. Fletcher and Ross sat at the kitchen table and made a detailed list of who’d sent letters and cards and wreaths, while Jane Shields, Tony’s older sister, helped them and kept Fletch supplied with coffee.

  “With love and sympathy from the Colby family,” Fletch read from a card that had accompanied flowers.

  “Paul Colby was Tony’s friend all through high school. He got on well with Paul’s parents, too, though they’re very strict. Anyway, they’re all here, I think, except Paul had to go back to work.”

  “I met Paul at the medical examiner’s, when he told us who Tony was.”

  “That’s right,” the young woman said. “I know it sounds awful but somehow it makes it even worse that Tony was lying there in a refrigerator, and we didn’t claim him for days. Thank heavens for Paul.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Fletch offered. He checked that Ross had noted the relevant details, then picked up the next card. “In memoriam, John Garrett.”

  “Don’t know, actually. Robert -” Jane called to a brother nearby. When she had his attention, she beckoned him closer and handed him the card. “Do you know who this is?”

  Robert thought for a moment. “Oh right, yeah, I’m guessing that’s his boss from the construction site. I never met him or anything, but Tone mentioned him a couple of times, reckoned he was good to work for, like he was one of the boys.”

  “I thought Tony was unemployed when he went missing,” Fletch said.

  “Well, yeah, but only for a week or so. They’d just finished the new building in town, and Tone was taking a break before he looked for more work. I think he got a good reference from this guy.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Sure, if I can find it. Why?”

  “We’re just making sure there are no loose ends,” Fletch said calmly, not wanting anyone’s imagination running wild. “Once we tidy everything up and get a feel for who Tony was and who his friends and acquaintances were, then we’ll know where else to look.”

  The young man seemed satisfied with that. He shrugged and meandered off.

  Fletcher read from the next card. “In sympathy, Liz Barnes.”

  Jane Shields looked very sad. “She’s the girl in the armchair over there, the one with the red hair. Liz was Tony’s girlfriend.”

  Having only just quit work, Fletcher lay back on the bed in Albert’s room, arms pillowing his head. Albert had the radio on quietly, tuned to a station playing classical music, which was nice enough. Relaxing, even. The forensics man was working on yet another report - Fletch often wondered how many forests were lost in any one murder investigation, what with all the reports and copies and bulletins, and then all the newspapers, too.

  “What a ghastly day,” Fletch murmured, mind wandering.

  “Don’t get too comfortable. I expect you to leave by midnight. You have ten minutes.”

  “Or what? I’ll turn into a pumpkin?” Fletch chuckled, then subsided again, too tired for laughter. “Everyone’s in the same condition but for you, apparently. Absolute exhaustion, running on nerves alone. You should have been there this afternoon. Everything tense and sort of glum because of Sam’s funeral and we haven’t made an arrest yet, and Owen tells this joke, this real simple thing - Two peanuts walking in a park. One was a salted. You see? Assaulted.” Fletch giggled for a moment. “I mean, it isn’t that funny -” But, helpless, he giggled again. “Or maybe it is, I’m not fit to judge right now. Anyway, this room full of grown men and women just crack up like you wouldn’t believe. Complete hysteria. That’s the state we’re all in. What about you?”

  “I’m tired,” Albert allowed.

  “Yeah. You should have been there, love, I mean it, a laugh would have done you good. Laughing at us, if not the stupid joke.”

  A pause. “You have two minutes.”

  “A hard, hard, hard man.” Fletch glanced over at Albert, and was abruptly struck by an alarming thought. “In all the time we’ve known each other,” he said slowly, thinking back over eight years, “in all that time,” he continued, sitting up on the side of the bed, “I can’t recall you ever laughing. Not once.”

  “That’s entirely possible,” Albert conceded.

  “That’s entirely terrible!”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Fletch repeated, horrified. “Well, I don’t know - it’s not like you don’t have a sense of humor. But I guess I can’t imagine someone never laughing - it sounds so …” He’d been going to say unhappy, but thought better of it in time. What if that were the truth?

  “It’s midnight, go get some sleep. I’m sure tomorrow will prove as demanding as today.”

  “No, I - I’d really like to hear you laugh. What does it sound like, Albert?”

  “This whole issue is of no interest to me.”

  “But I feel like I’ve failed you.”

  “Maybe you have.”

  Fletch stared for a moment - but Albert was just trying to scare him off. He grinned, humorless. “You’re as good at emotional blackmail as I am, aren’t you?”

  “Go away, Ash.”

  “No.” He walked over to the man where he sat beside the table, knelt before him, ran his arms around Albert’s waist. “I love you.”

  “You have told me so on a number of occasions.” Albert impatiently put the paperwork down.

  “I want to do you good.”

  “I don’t imagine we’d be friends otherwise.” As if it was self-evident and easily dismissed. But Albert seemed sad underneath the annoyance, which was alarming if only because the man was usually too good at concealing his emotions.

  Fletcher stretched up, kissed Albert as thoroughly as he knew how. When he broke away, he said, “At least I do this for you.”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment, Fletch thought he’d be dismissed again but Albert gathered him up closely and made careful love to him, right there. Because Fletch needed to be needed, right then.

  Even though Fletcher was on his knees on the floor, even though he was only being jerked off and kissed, even though he was exhausted, Albert made the sex feel so damned sweet. Why was something this simple so good? Fletch wasn’t one to wish he were a teenager again, so it wasn’t the return to the basics that did it - and Albert was too precise and knowledgeable for Fletch to pretend this was a fumbling first time, even if he’d wanted to. They were both in their FBI suits and ties, Fletch’s trousers unzipped but still hugging his hips, which added a jolt of the forbidden, but that was only part of the answer.

  Albert loved him, Albert made him feel perfect, that was all. Even with only a mouth on his own, and a hand at his genitals.

  Fletch groaned, so close to orgasm so quickly. Albert would often hold back at this stage, and let Fletch calm down before bringing him to the brink again and again, but Fletch was in no condition for that tonight. “Please,” he whispered. The hand withdrew, and he began a protest, but then he was being forcibly lifted to his feet, Albert’s hands on his hips. The man bent forward to take Fletch’s penis into his mouth, sucked hard. Fletch came almost immediately, crying out before he could stop himself, leaning over to prop himself on the chair’s arms. Then he fell to his knees again, and they held each other.

  “What about you?” Fletch whispered when he could.

  “You’re going to your room and I’m going to get some sleep.
”

  “All right, love.”

  “I’d prefer you kept the endearments to a minimum.”

  Fletch grinned. “That is the minimum.”

  “Really. If good taste doesn’t restrain you, what about the thought we might be bugged?”

  “I can’t take that seriously, Albert. Anyway, it’s too late now, isn’t it? You’ve just been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”

  Albert appeared to despair. “What an interesting image,” he said. Then he admitted, “I think it probable they’d simply tap our home telephones. It’s less likely they’d have the field office conducting surveillance on us here in Oregon, especially as we’re spending the majority of our time working and therefore presumably behaving appropriately. Or, if they have gone that far, then we’re already in a great deal of trouble.”