The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  “But even they think this man exists only in my imagination, they’re worse than the bureaucrats at HQ. So if I worked with them, I probably wouldn’t have seen the connections, either.”

  Another silence stretched, which was something Fletch liked about Albert - he was one of the few people Fletch knew who didn’t mind lengthy pauses in a conversation, or hours spent together without a word exchanged. In fact, he was the only person other than Peter Ash who remained completely comfortable in those situations. Unlike Peter, though, Albert probably preferred them.

  “I decided about that boy in Oregon,” Fletcher eventually said.

  “The Brooks murder. What did you decide?”

  “It wasn’t our man. It doesn’t feel right. The victim was too young, there was no sexual penetration -”

  Albert said, “There wasn’t with Sam Doherty, either.”

  “But Sam’s method of disposal was the obvious link there, the forest burial. Brooks had bite marks - our man hasn’t left bite marks before. And the only body he’s thrown in a river was Stacey Dixon, and she’s the exception that proves the rule.”

  “All right.”

  “You agree?”

  “Yes.”

  Fletch almost chuckled. “I guess I can still rely on you challenging me if you don’t. Agree with me, that is.” The abortive chuckle turned into a yawn. “I’d better go. Wish me a good night’s sleep, no nightmares. I’m a desperate man.”

  “Indeed,” Albert said flatly.

  Fletch did chuckle then, happy for that moment. His imagination would run wild with innuendo and Albert always knew it - and disapproved of it, on the surface at least. But Fletch suspected that Albert enjoyed the innuendo, too, despite the impatience with which he greeted it. Albert, who was forever trying to keep the strength of his sensuality a secret, perhaps even from himself.

  “Good night,” Fletch said on that provocative thought, rather than risk getting himself in trouble with the man, and they both hung up.

  The unmarked folder was sitting there at his feet. Fletch leaned forward, hand straying, wanting to flip through the photographs one last time. But there was no excuse for it - there was no more to learn from the appearance of the victims, they surely held no more clues. It would merely be self-indulgence.

  Too tired to halt the speculation, Fletch wondered whether he would have found the young men attractive if Albert hadn’t re-awakened his curiosity about sex with people of his own gender.

  It was an impossible question to answer. Fletcher sighed again, and forced himself to head for the bedroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  WASHINGTON DC

  JANUARY 1985

  Albert was bitter. He’d prefer to be blazingly angry, furiously righteous, but all he had was this cold and familiar lump of lead in his chest - just below his sternum, wedged between the right ventricle of his heart and his diaphragm. It was a physical sensation, though he knew even the most skilled of autopsies would never find the poisonous thing.

  He sat there at the circular table covered with fine white linen, opposite Ash, amidst the muted activity of this popular restaurant. The mediocre McIntyre was at Albert’s left and the willfully misguided Dr Celia Mortimer at his right. The bitterness tainted everything so that even the food, which might otherwise provide an interesting distraction from the surrounding mundanity, was all but inedible.

  Bitter resentment, because this whole intolerable situation was Fletcher’s fault.

  It began with the pervasive self-disgust. Albert had at first tried to put behind him the events of the previous night and the related mess of emotion; when that had proved impossible, he’d endeavored to work out the reasons for his reaction; when that failed, he tried again to ignore it. He had given in to Ash’s whim, and staged a sexual bondage game for him not twenty-four hours ago, and now - now Albert was nothing but self-disgust. It was as if the game had shown Albert a caricature of himself, and he loathed the image with all the immediacy that a continuing sexual arousal could provide. Fletcher’s fault.

  Then, for the briefest of moments, while sharing a bathtub of all indignities, Ash had actually given to Albert rather than, as was usual between them, taken from him. And by doing so, Fletcher had shown Albert Sterne the tiniest part of how devastatingly vulnerable he could be. Albert had always worked on the assumption that he would never need anyone even a hundredth as much as this. Fletcher couldn’t have done better if he’d planned it. Had it been revenge, subconscious or not, for the man’s observation: You really know how to take me to pieces, don’t you? It was too cruel of the man to demonstrate that the knowledge was mutual. Fletcher’s fault.

  And after breezing through the day as if nothing significant had occurred, Fletcher now forced this inane company on Albert for the evening. Destroying the modicum of respect Albert held for Mortimer, because she was taking great delight in teasing Fletcher about that woman he’d been in love with, Tyler Reece. Fletcher’s fault.

  Fletcher himself was being charming, in that disarmingly honest and unaffected way of his that was all the more effective for being so; apparently undaunted by the stony gaze opposite. It was Fletcher’s fault, too, that the righteous fury Albert should have felt had been demoralized into this ineffectual bitterness.

  Ineffectual, because it could not stop him reacting in ways he hated. Ineffectual, but not impotent. The urge was so strong to drag Fletcher Ash home, to unleash this aggressive sexual need on him. It didn’t help that he knew Fletcher would welcome such an act. Albert lost the last of his minimal appetite, loathing this part of himself he did not want to be. Fletcher’s fault, for awakening it.

  All this, surely this was why Albert had kept himself strictly to himself over the years, avoiding the entanglements of family, friends, lovers. Why were human beings so prey to relationships that only served to pull them down into the petty, sordid mire of emotion?

  Melodrama. Fletcher’s fault.

  Yes, there was Ash, being unutterably charming, as if oblivious to all the trouble he had caused. McIntyre was responding to the convivial atmosphere, more relaxed and confident than Albert had ever seen him. Mortimer was allowing herself to look prettier and prettier, and was contributing as much wit and substance to the conversation as Fletcher.

  Of course Ash set out to deliberately charm people, to establish a rapport with those who could help him. Charm was such an effective form of manipulation, after all, and one suited to Fletcher’s instincts for who people were, where their weaknesses lay. And he carried it all off with such an open and vulnerable manner that almost everyone was willing to be fooled. Including Albert.

  Yes, Albert had been charmed by Fletcher David Ash long ago and was still being rudely awakened to the ramifications of it. Fletcher’s fault. And his own, for having that one weakness, that one blind spot.

  His own fault, of course, not Fletcher’s.

  This whole thing was his own fault for allowing Ash into his life, and Albert must remember that. In fact, that would have to be the worst of it, that Albert could sit here and blame everything on another person when his life was his own responsibility.

  What on earth had he wanted, Albert wondered; what had he wanted years ago, when he’d slowly developed such an alarming partiality to this man? What had been his goal then? Because surely this miserable farce of a relationship wasn’t it.

  And what, Albert had to ask himself, did Fletcher want? What was the attraction? Ash had few long term relationships and all were sustained by external factors: ties of blood and marriage to the minimal family in Idaho; a working partnership with his supervisor, Caroline Thornton; use of Mac for research and support; use of Albert for forensics expertise and sex. Fletcher’s other relationships tended to be friendly but short term, pleasant and superficial, despite his charm and the traits most people found likeable. The women, lovers or friends, were all impossible and doomed. The men Ash knew were acquaintances rather than anything more.

  Although Albert had been inte
rested in Fletcher Ash from the start, it had been years before he’d decided the man was worthwhile, before he’d acknowledged Ash’s persistent claims of friendship. So, did Celia Mortimer blindly accept Mac’s poor judgment and dogged loyalty as indicating value? Or could she, on so short an acquaintance, already see something valuable or interesting in Fletcher?

  On immediate display were Ash’s frankness, directness, sincerity; the honesty that often appeared naïve but at times seemed alarmingly sophisticated; the vulnerabilities that seemed to cry, Show me yours, here are mine for all to see, all of which was made bearable by the respect and humor, the fresh intelligence and enduring enthusiasm. Only Albert and, at times, Caroline Thornton were inflicted with the occasional bouts of despondency and self-recrimination.

  This was, naturally enough, an attractive package, especially when Fletcher was focusing it all in a genuine show of interest in the acquiescent subject. Of course Celia and McIntyre were enjoying the man’s company.

  Albert abruptly turned his gaze elsewhere. He wasn’t in the habit of eulogizing when someone died, let alone when they were sitting there, flesh and blood, very much alive. Fletcher’s mitigating good points were the last thing he wanted to think about right now.

  He forced his thoughts to follow his gaze. Despite the fact Albert was still in the clothes he’d worn to work that day, having refused to get changed for the sake of this evening’s imposed venture, he was better dressed than most of the people in the restaurant, and certainly outshone his three companions. He noted that Fletcher had not worn the blue silk shirt Albert had given him. So be it. If it wouldn’t be a melodramatic, futile and wasteful gesture, Albert would throw the thing out. Albert rarely regretted his actions but sending Ash a Christmas present now seemed stupidly romantic. And the sex last night - only last night, though Albert’s time sense declared it an eon ago - he surely regretted that.

  And here he sat, with no distraction from his reflections other than this inane dinner party. He should have brought those test results from the lab - he could have reviewed and summarized them by now, and drafted a report in long hand.

  Even the music the restaurant was playing was an irritant. It sounded as if some popular music star had sought the influence of Africa’s native music. The impulse was sound, as rock music’s rhythms originated there, but the results were an unsatisfactory mishmash. A theme was needed, some central idea beyond the simple exploration of origin, to unite and guide the whole.

  “No, no,” Ash was protesting, “I’ve already bored you to tears this afternoon with the story of my wild goose chase.” Albert heaved an internal sigh, wishing this man, his illicit lover, was better at keeping secrets.

  “But I’m fascinated,” Mortimer replied, leaning forward a little. Her voice deepened, as if what she would say was important or confidential or both. “I suppose any puzzle, any unsolved crime or mystery, any hint of a conspiracy, the more macabre the better, is bound to fascinate. Who was Jack the Ripper? Did Lee Harvey Oswald act alone? Who is Fletch’s serial killer?”

  “See, Albert, I’m going to form a task force with or without the Bureau’s cooperation.”

  He did not deign to respond, though he considered this more a mutual admiration society than a law enforcement task force. Why didn’t he say something scathing along those lines? But Fletcher’s presence had gagged him.

  After a beat, Celia said, “I’d love to help, of course, but you have Mr Sterne. He’s far more qualified for this type of investigation than I am.”

  Fletcher laughed. “Speaking of qualifications, it’s Dr Sterne, actually.”

  She turned a concerned expression on Albert. “I do apologize, I didn’t realize.”

  “Me, neither,” Mac added.

  Wonderful - all three of them were now staring at him. Albert began to glare indiscriminately around the table.

  But Fletcher was drawing their attention back to himself. “Simply having another true believer on the team is fine. For a start, it’s good to talk about it. Keeps me sane.”

  “We’ll definitely try to help there.”

  “The downside for you being that I have no other conversation these days. Every waking hour is either the Bureau’s official cases or this.”

  “You’re doing fine tonight,” Celia assured him. “And, of course, if there’s anything I can do to help -”

  “Great. The more people there are across the country, keeping an eye out for anything that might be our man, the better. We need to be onto him as soon as he shows his hand. It’s becoming crucial, not that it wasn’t before.”

  “Of course. Mac’s told me what he does for you.”

  McIntyre had the grace to shrug. “So much for my vow of silence,” he murmured.

  Smiling, Ash said, “Perhaps it shouldn’t go any further, but damn the rules - the Bureau isn’t playing fair by us.”

  “At least I have a full security clearance,” Celia offered. “The field office often uses our facilities, so they’ve cleared our core personnel.”

  “Not good enough. You obviously haven’t read our rule book - it’s thicker than the Bible, and has a hell of a lot more than ten commandments.”

  “Yeah,” Mac agreed, “enough Thou Shalt Nots to drown in. But at least now Hoover’s gone we don’t have to take a vow of chastity.”

  “Cheers to that,” Fletcher declared, so fervently that the other two laughed in surprised delight. The man cast a mischievous glance at Albert, who maintained his stony composure.

  The table’s conversation, still dominated by Ash and Mortimer, rambled on and then quieted as one of the restaurant’s lackeys cleared away the plates and debris. “Did you enjoy your meal?” the lackey asked; a standard formula rather than a genuine request for information. Nevertheless, the other three all provided enthusiastic words and gestures to indicate an answer in the affirmative. The lackey smiled graciously and withdrew, smoothly bearing his precarious load.

  “It is incredible here,” Fletcher repeated for the benefit of their own party. “But,” he added, “nothing compares to Albert’s cooking.”

  Albert repaid this impudence with a furious glare - for now. No doubt there would be a chance for suitable remonstrance later tonight.

  McIntyre was looking surprised, flummoxed by this disparate information. Mortimer was interested. “You cook, Dr Sterne? Do you specialize in a particular cuisine?”

  Silence. And then Ash belatedly attempted to remedy the situation. “Actually, Celia, I really like the Cajun and Creole styles. Tell me about the restaurants in New Orleans.”

  After a shaky start, Mortimer took up the conversation easily enough, answering Fletcher’s queries, with some input from McIntyre on how strange everything was down south, particularly the food.

  To the practiced eye, Ash was by turns annoyed with Albert and chagrined with himself, but he apparently felt he owed it to McIntyre and Mortimer to continue to charm them.

  After describing one of the Cajun dishes, Celia said, “The cuisine doesn’t exactly cater for vegetarians, though. Dr Sterne would have trouble finding any authentic food to eat.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Ash was wholly surprised. He looked quizzically across at Albert. “Would he?”

  “Yes, everything includes seafood or meat. Even the red beans and rice dish comes with sausage.”

  But thankfully Ash let Celia continue rather than ask Albert about his eggplant Creole and other variations on the cuisine’s themes. Ash had betrayed more than enough confidences for one night, and perhaps he had at last realized it.

  A terrible cold silence blanketed the drive over the Potomac, past the Arlington Cemetery, and all the way home. Fletcher unlocked and opened the garage doors; then waited for Albert to park the Saab inside, let it idle for a precise thirty seconds, and join him outside. After securing the garage again, Fletcher led the way into the house, to the kitchen - and proceeded to brew himself a pot of coffee rather than, as was usual, wait for Albert to do it.

  It wa
s only then, with a mug of coffee steaming on the table and the two men standing either side of it, that Fletcher spoke. “That was pretty damned childish, Albert.” Unmistakably angry, if unexpectedly restrained. Perhaps a hint of the same bitterness that Albert himself was feeling. “Sulking through dinner and not saying a word. I can understand you not particularly wanting to be there but you could have made some sort of effort.”

  “You’re an expert on childish behavior, Ash, so I’ll take your word for it.”

  “So you haven’t lost your voice,” Fletcher said - then, under Albert’s withering stare, he apparently realized what a pointless observation that had been. He continued, with renewed feeling, “What would you call it? Maintaining a quiet dignity? Well, it wasn’t dignified at all - it was just plain rude.”

  “Really,” Albert said.