by Julie Bozza
The lieutenant said, “That’s enough, Special Agent.”
Having already fallen silent, Fletcher was staring at Garrett, noting the fixed expression of distaste. It were almost as if the man was in shock, his breathing hard but shallow, his face pale and that distaste plastered over the top. There had been a reaction to the horror Fletch had thrown at him, a truer reaction than this discomfort: Garrett had understood all that Fletcher described. This was the serial killer. If Fletcher had been in any doubt, he had none now.
“Mr Garrett,” Fletcher said, also standing, “perhaps you’d wait here for a moment. I need to talk to Lieutenant Halligan.”
The man briefly lifted his hands in exasperation, then sat down again. “Sure. One moment, for the sake of clearing this up. Then I’m leaving.”
Fletcher ushered Halligan out into the main office, bent his head close and whispered urgently, “That’s him, Lieutenant. I want you to hold him in custody while I go talk to Judge Beaufort.”
Halligan also whispered, presumably for the sake of privacy. “He’s not your killer, Ash.”
“He damn well is. Weren’t you watching him? Didn’t you see how he reacted? He knew exactly what I was talking about.”
Halligan looked even more annoyed than Garrett, though he didn’t raise his voice. “I was looking, all right. I saw an innocent man trying to clear his name and being damned patient about it. Of course he was shocked at what you said, you went way too far, Special Agent. If he wants to complain about how you conducted that interview - and it was a preliminary interview, remember, not an interrogation - then I’ll support him.”
Fletcher gazed at the man, hard and bitter. “Are you telling me you won’t support me in this investigation, even though I have the jurisdiction and the authority?”
“I wouldn’t tell you that, Special Agent.”
“Only because you know it would be your career if you did.”
Halligan had the sense to look ill at ease, but he asked, “Why the hell did you go that far? ‘Were you raping him while you killed him?’ How would you feel if someone threw that at you, Ash?”
“Like dirt, whether it was true or not. But he understood me, Halligan. He understood me because that’s exactly what he did.”
“Now you’re throwing it at me.”
“How else can I get you to take this seriously?”
“The way I see it,” the lieutenant said, face still two inches from Fletcher’s, “you have no grounds to hold this man. If he wants to walk, he’s free to walk, and I’m not about to stop him.”
“I’m going to talk to the judge.”
“John Garrett won’t be here when you get back, Ash.”
Fletcher looked at the man. “I know.” Albert had joined them, but Fletcher ignored him. Turning his back on Halligan, and not even glancing at the interview room where Garrett waited, Fletch headed out of the police station.
Judge Beaufort demanded, “What have you brought me, Agent Ash? And where is the prosecuting attorney?”
“I saw no reason to bother Ms Atwell, Your Honor, because I’ve brought you nothing. I’m afraid the interview was inconclusive.” Fletcher wondered if he sounded as weary and hopeless as he felt. The courtroom was large and empty and echoing. He tilted his head to look up at the judge. “I’m here to ask you for your help.”
“What can you expect me to do?”
“The suspect is aware of who I am now, Your Honor, he didn’t know anyone was onto him before this afternoon. But I couldn’t hold him at the station, he gave me nothing.” The ugly truth, Fletcher, he admonished himself. “I failed. I failed, and he’s free right now and no doubt on his way home. If there’s any evidence there, it will be gone by tomorrow. At least, I’m sure Dr Sterne would be able to find things, if there’s been any crime committed at the house, but he’ll dump any material relating to the previous crimes -”
“Such as? What exactly would you expect to find, Special Agent?”
“As Ms Atwell detailed yesterday, anything to do with the victims. Serial killers often keep trophies, items they’ve taken from the victims, clothing or jewelry or driver’s licenses. None of them were mutilated in ways to suggest he keeps body parts. But he might have press clippings about the cases. Even photographs, or audio or video tapes of the actual murders.”
“I cannot give you your warrant, Agent Ash. Mr Garrett is a respected man in our community -”
Fletcher turned an imploring and frustrated stare on the judge, unable to stop himself. “Your Honor, that’s how he gets away with this time and time again. He works hard to be the kind of man who’s above suspicion -”
“No, you listen to me, Special Agent. No one is above suspicion in this courtroom. No one. Don’t you imply that I would treat Mr Garrett any differently than I would a homeless man or a senator.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor, I didn’t mean to imply that.”
The mountain appeared somewhat appeased. “Now, what I was going to say was that Mr Garrett has ties to New Orleans, he has a business to run. He’s unlikely to move on without any warning.”
“But he has before. He completely disappeared from Oregon, and not many people could do that so thoroughly.”
“He had time to plan in that instance. I don’t consider him a high flight risk.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Fletcher knew his tone conveyed his disagreement.
“The rules of evidence are there for a reason, Special Agent. Innocent until proven guilty - they’re strong words, it’s a strong principle. And sometimes we fallible human beings need strong rules to follow in order to live up to our principles.” A pause, and then in a more reasonable voice, “Look at it from this perspective, Mr Ash. You could be the only one who’s seen the truth in this case. If so, I admire you and I pity you. On the other hand, you could be fixated, obsessed with nothing more than a phantom. I have to protect Mr Garrett from that fixation. You hold the power in this, Special Agent, even if you feel powerless right now. You’re the one with the badge and the gun.”
Fletcher sighed. “Look at it from my perspective, Mr Beaufort. The courts seem to be more about law than justice, more about procedure than results.”
“Maybe you’re right. The law certainly isn’t perfect. But human beings have high ideals and we try to apply them. You can’t ask for more than that.”
“Can’t I?”
Judge Beaufort considered Fletcher, gazing down at him from his bench. “When this is over, you and I will share a bottle or two of burgundy, and discuss justice and law, ideals and realities. These are fascinating areas to debate. But not now, Special Agent; I have work to do, and I believe you do, too.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you for your time and your patience.”
The man nodded, and left through the door behind the dais, moving slowly and steadily and inevitably. Fletcher watched him go, then headed out of the court. If Fletcher did have work to do right now, he had no idea what the hell it was.
Fletcher had been planning to walk over to the FBI offices but he’d been distracted almost immediately. There was a park occupying the block between the federal building and the courthouse, and the green of it beckoned.
So now Fletcher was lying on his back on the grass, his jacket spread under his head and shoulders, heedless of what this might do to his suit, staring up through the branches of spreading oaks. The leaves were so abundant that they provided total shade, a welcome darkness and an illusion of coolness - at least when compared to the direct bleaching sunlight a few yards away.
“It’s me, Fletch,” someone said above him.
Tilting his head back, Fletcher found McIntyre standing over him. “Hello, Mac.”
“Albert sent me to find you.” The man was sitting down on a park bench a few feet away. Obviously nothing urgent.
“Did he?” Fletch murmured.
Mac asked, “How are you doing?”
“I’ve been better.” The silence stretched, then Fletcher complained, dull and
weary, “This damned heat. It’s even worse than Washington.”
Mac looked over at him, and offered, “I’m afraid it’s always like this. A long summer, with no relief, and then a long winter. It’s the humidity that gets you.”
“You lived here for a while, didn’t you? Where’s the romance of New Orleans? It’s all office buildings and hotel chains around here.”
“You’re in between the best of it. The French Quarter is a few blocks to the north-east; that’s the oldest part, with lots of the history, and all of the nightlife. The Garden District is behind us to the south-west; that’s where all the beautiful big houses are.” Mac pointed across the park. “Look, that’s the trolley car that takes you up Saint Charles Avenue through the Garden District. Sometime, when we have an hour to spare, we’ll take a ride.”
Fletcher obediently lifted his head to see the trolley car go by, then sank back down again. “This damned humidity,” Fletcher repeated. It was thoroughly draining, and he’d been tired enough when he came here.
“You want to head inside?” Mac suggested.
“You go, if you want.” Fletch summoned a chuckle from somewhere. “It takes a lot to make me appreciate a closed air-conditioned office, believe me, but I think this climate might do it.”
Another silence began to stretch between them. At last McIntyre asked, “What’s wrong, Fletch? You’re not giving up, are you?”
Fletcher let out a sigh. “No, I’m not giving up. I just don’t know what to do next.”
“It’s only been five days since we got here. Give it time.”
“If I had time, I’d be happy to give it, but he’s forcing my hand.” Fletch tilted his head again to look at his companion. Mac was too loyal to really question Fletcher’s methods and motivations, and therefore deserved an explanation. “The police here don’t believe me. You and Albert are still the only people who give any credence to my theory that these crimes are connected. Halligan’s first reaction was, ‘that crosses too many states and too many years’. I’m beginning to suspect you and Albert of humoring me.”
“Albert wouldn’t humor anybody, not even you.” After a moment, Mac amended, “Especially not you.”
Fletch squinted up at him, wondering if Mac were becoming more astute, or if they’d been guilty of underestimating the man. “That’s true. Cold comfort, perhaps, but true.” He continued, “The prosecuting attorney didn’t believe me, though she did her best. It wasn’t her fault that the judge didn’t believe me either. Though the judge was actually listening to me for a while.”
“So, why do you say Garrett’s forcing your hand?”
“He has friends everywhere. In fact, I’m impressed at how thoroughly this man has become part of the community; he only arrived here last October or November. It reminds me of how well he disappeared from Oregon, actually. He’s very clever at this, infiltrating and camouflaging, then extricating himself. The way he did it this time was by buying a failing renovation business and turning it around so it’s become the most popular one in town. He worked on a senator’s house in the Garden District, and some businessman’s house at Metairie, and made all the right friends doing it. He employs the sons and nephews and cousins of almost everyone I talk to. He’s assistant coach of the high school football team - the Cherubs, I think they’re called.” Fletcher shrugged as well as he was able. “Everyone thinks he’s wonderful. Then along comes an interfering fed with this tall tale of how everyone’s favorite guy is a serial killer. Of course they’re not going to listen to me.”
Mac was sitting there, apparently waiting for Fletcher to make his point.
“I had to make my move quickly because even if they didn’t take me seriously, all Garrett’s friends on the police force were going to warn him about me. There was no point in giving him the opportunity to leave town before I’d even interviewed him.”
After a moment, Mac said, “I understand the interview hasn’t helped your case.”
“It helped me. He talked a lot, I feel I know him better than ever. But he didn’t say anything that will convince anyone else that he’s the killer.”
“You’re still convinced?”
Fletch sighed. “Halligan didn’t see what I saw, and I guess the observers didn’t, either. When John Garrett looked at me, he recognized me as his enemy. He was shrewd, he was cold, he was wary. He heard everything I was saying - I mean he heard it in his heart, he understood it because it was the truth.”
“Even if Lieutenant Halligan saw some of that, he’d hardly blame Garrett for being wary of you.”
“Yes. Especially as Garrett created the impression that he’s innocent and I’m paranoid. That idea fits too well with our behavior.” Another silence, as Fletcher once again reviewed all he’d done in the last five days. “No matter how I add it up, Mac, I’ve tried everything legal and it’s not working. I’ve run out of options.”
“It takes time.”
“We don’t have time, especially now he knows I’m onto him. We need to take him as quickly as we can, otherwise he’s going to take advantage of the fact that no one believes me.”
“So what do we do next?”
“Like I said, I have no idea.” Fletcher slowly sat up, and turned to face Mac. “Where’s Albert? At the Bureau offices?”
“No, he phoned me from the police station. Told me to come and find you. Said he was performing damage control.”
“What?” Fletcher stared at the man, confused. After all, Albert was the one who caused damage when it came to dealing with the police and suspects and witnesses, and Fletcher was the one who worked to minimize the effects.
Mac frowned. No doubt he also found this whole thing strange. “From what Albert said, I think he was going to follow Garrett, and see what he did next.”
Stranger and stranger. “Oh, hell,” Fletch muttered. He couldn’t decide whether he was fearful or excited or impressed at what Albert was allegedly doing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, he said not to, not right away. I think he’s worried about you.” The frown deepened. “I’m worried, too. Both of you are acting kind of crazy at the moment.”
“Can’t blame me for that,” Fletch said absently. “Goes with the investigation. Not to mention the humidity.” Curious, he asked, “What exactly did Albert say?”
Deadpan, Mac recited, “Fletcher spat the dummy. Find him, hose him down, tell him I’m doing his job for him.”
Fletcher laughed hard at this ludicrous interpretation, finally managed to say, “The truth, Mac.”
“He was in a hurry, I guess he didn’t want to lose Garrett. He said something like, ‘The interview wasn’t successful. Ash is heading for court though it’s useless. Find him, give him some time if he needs it, then tell him I’m following Garrett for him.’”
“I see.” After a moment, Fletcher said, “I hope Albert took a car with a radio. Let’s go find him.” They headed for the car Mac had been allocated. Setting the radio to the open channel the police used, Fletch picked up the handset. “Albert, are you out there?”
A pause, and then, “Yes.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
Another pause, slightly longer. “Sightseeing.”
“Sure,” Fletcher replied, trying not to laugh.
“Perhaps you should join me.” And Albert named the street he was on.
Though Albert hadn’t given him a number, Fletcher knew immediately where the man was: outside the shopfront of Garrett’s renovation business. “All right, I’ll see you soon.” He hung up the handset, and turned to Mac. “You know where that is?”
Mac was already starting the car. “Have you there in ten minutes.”
Fletcher sat in the passenger seat, Albert beside him, both of them gazing at the shopfront, thirty feet away on the opposite side of the street. They had been silent since Fletch had sent Mac back to work, mostly because Fletcher found he had too many things to think about, and too many questions to ask. Eventually he decided on the s
implest and most relevant of the questions: “Did Garrett go back to his house?”
“No,” Albert replied, “he came straight here. It appears he’s attempting to act as an innocent person would. His only apparent concern at present is the work hours he’s lost.”
“Does he know you followed him?”
“He might. Halligan had the uniformed officer drive him back here and either of them could have seen me. I didn’t have time to be subtle about it.”
Fletch turned to consider this man, his friend. “Why are you doing this, Albert?”
The silence returned. Albert was expressionless behind his dark glasses. At last he said, “When you left the police station, Garrett spoke with a few of the officers. While he did, I told Halligan you’d expect to have Garrett’s immediate movements tracked, but Halligan refused beyond offering him a lift.”