by Julie Bozza
A pained and then a resigned expression quickly masked the relief on Albert’s face. “Of course you are,” he said, distant.
Fletcher briefly wondered, for the millionth time, where Albert went when he was that withdrawn. “There was a phone booth back around the corner. I’m going to call Mac, get him to bring us something.”
“Why don’t you use the radio?”
Fletcher looked at it. “No, not yet. Halligan will find out what we’re doing soon enough.” He smiled at Albert, and climbed out of the car. “I’ll be back in a minute, love.”
Within forty-five minutes, Mac drove up behind them, then walked up to the car. Celia followed, with a flat cardboard carton balanced precariously on each hand. Mac was grinning. “One large vegetarian pizza, as requested.”
“You’re miracle workers,” Fletch declared, taking the box Celia passed him through the window and setting it on the seat between him and Albert.
“And if you don’t mind, we carnivores will eat ours in the back seat.”
“Be our guests,” Fletcher said, already munching on a slice of pizza. “Hello, Celia.”
“Hello, Fletch. Albert.” She slid in behind the driver’s seat, apparently not noticing that Albert didn’t acknowledge her greeting.
“Come on, Albert, have a slice,” Fletcher said. “Why do you think I ordered vegetarian?”
After a moment, Albert deigned to select a small piece and began to eat it very carefully.
Fletcher grinned. Albert was probably the only one of the four of them who could eat pizza in a car without making a mess of himself or his clothes or his surroundings. “This is great.” Fletch added, “Actually, it’s almost as good as Albert’s,” which earned him an angry glower.
“I have my contacts,” Mac explained. “I know who to ask to find the best pizza in town.”
Celia said, “I should have guessed before. Cops are a mine of information about these things. The best pizza, the best donuts, the best hamburgers, the best beer.”
“I told you, they spend a week every month doing comparisons across the city. They investigate taste, cost, convenience, service, cooperation. It’s a vital piece of detecting work.”
They were silent, then, as they ate and darkness fell. Albert wouldn’t have more than two slices, so Fletcher happily munched through the rest of their pizza. Then Mac returned to his car to retrieve the bottled water and coffee he’d bought.
A light was turned on in one of Garrett’s front rooms, and then the changing muted colors of the television glowed through the blinds. The four of them had all turned to watch.
Mac said, “So you’re really doing this, Fletcher?”
“Yes. The new rule is that there are no rules and no hostages.”
“Good,” was the response. “We’ll take the graveyard shift tonight.”
Fletcher swung around in his seat to look at Mac and Celia. “What? This isn’t exactly acceptable operating procedure, you know. And once the Bureau hierarchy finds out, we’ll be in all kinds of trouble.”
“We’ll help,” Mac said. “You’ve got to get this guy, Fletch, that’s the bottom line.”
Celia nodded. “That’s got to be the priority.”
Fletch said, “At least we have the excuse that it’s related to our jobs, Celia. You don’t.”
She shrugged. “I’ll deal with the trouble when I have to, though I think they’ll treat me as a citizen, an innocent bystander. Meanwhile, this friend of mine takes me parking in suburban streets. I guess he doesn’t want to compete with the distraction of an interesting view for my attention.”
Though he smiled at this cover story, Fletcher opened his mouth to protest some more.
Celia didn’t let him speak. “You’re not used to accepting loyalty, are you, Fletcher?”
He glanced around at Mac, and an oblivious Albert, then back to Celia. “No, I suppose I’m not. And, to be honest, I don’t like the responsibility.”
“It’s our decision to help you,” Mac said.
And Albert quietly reminded him, “No rules, Ash.”
“No prisoners!” Mac cried. “No prisoners!”
“You’ve been watching too many late night movies, Mac,” Fletch said with a laugh. After a moment, he nodded. “All right. I’ll accept your help, with thanks.”
Mac offered, “How about we relieve you at midnight? Give you until eight to get some rest.”
“We’ll be back around six,” Fletch said. “You’ll have to be careful, though, he might try something in the small hours. I’d bet anything you like that he has evidence in there and he’ll try to hide it, or dump it, or destroy it at some stage.”
“We’ll be careful,” Mac said.
“Any light or noise or movement,” Celia added.
Fletcher said, “But don’t do anything you don’t have to.”
“Relax, Fletch, we know what we’re doing.”
“I’m glad someone does.” He grinned at them, then Mac and Celia were leaving. “See you at twelve. And thank you both.”
All was quiet once they’d driven away. Albert, who’d talked more that evening than he had in the couple of weeks since Fletcher left Colorado, was now silent. Fletch occupied himself with thoughts of how he’d present this case in court; there was nothing like continually reviewing the material and being prepared. Added to which, mulling matters over like this had often brought him connections, inspired him with insights.
The object of his thoughts walked out his front door and approached their car. Fletcher sat up straighter, watched the man carefully.
“Thought you might want a beer,” Garrett said, holding out two cans, slick with moisture, grasped in one large hand. He already had an open can in his other hand, from which he now took a swig.
“We’re on duty,” Fletcher replied.
“Really?” Garrett looked away, laughed to himself. “This sort of harassment couldn’t be official, surely.”
Fletcher decided to ignore that. “We don’t want the beer, Mr Garrett.”
“You have some crazy notions about me, Special Agent. You go ahead and run with them. But we can act civilized in the meantime, can’t we?”
“I don’t know,” Fletcher said slowly. “I’ve never met a civilized serial killer before.”
Another laugh. It took an obvious effort for the laugh to sound easy. “Sleep well, boys.” And he headed back inside. Moments later, the light in the front room was turned out, and Garrett apparently moved towards the rear of the house.
Fletcher frowned, trying to slot Garrett’s behavior into what he already knew about the man. This was what he felt to be an important weakness in himself: Fletcher needed time to think and to consider. He saw himself as being on input most of the time and therefore needing time to assimilate all he’d learned. That wasn’t bad in and of itself, but he thought it left him slow on his feet. Apart from which, it forced him to seek time alone and quiet each day, which could often be a luxury in this job.
“You’ve tried to tell me that you have an understanding of John Garrett,” Albert said into the silence. “That your instincts enable you to empathize with him.”
“Yeah,” Fletcher said, wary.
“I believe that you do have one trait in common.”
Albert left a pause, which Fletcher was unwilling to break. This was scary, his lover proposing such an idea.
“He is used to convincing people with charm and certainty, with apparent openness and the power of his own will. He manipulates people through knowledge of who they are and what they want. People rarely remain unmoved by him, particularly when he’s trying to influence them.”
“Ah,” Fletcher managed. He would have loved to say, with all the sarcasm he could muster, Thank you so much for sharing. But that would have been no more than a crude defense mechanism, and its cruelty would only dissuade Albert from ever talking to him again.
It hurt, though, applying this character sketch to himself. To Fletcher, charm was almost synonymous w
ith artifice and artifice meant lies, and honesty was far too important to him. He didn’t want to manipulate people, either, or influence them, which implied that he was forcing them to act or think differently than they would have otherwise. More lies, as well as unwanted responsibility for others.
But he reminded himself that the instinctive hurt wasn’t important. Pushing it aside, Fletcher began applying all this to Garrett instead, and considering what there was of truth in what Albert had said. And, of course, there was quite a lot.
Albert and Fletcher were back at their hotel by twelve-fifteen. It was a functional, anonymous building, one of the chains convenient to the federal building. They had rooms on the same floor, though they were located forty feet apart.
Undaunted by a glare from Albert, Fletcher tagged along behind him until they’d reached Albert’s door. They’d been silent since Albert had told him what he thought Garrett and Fletch had in common. It appeared that, if Albert had his way, they would remain so.
Fletcher stood close to the man, and murmured, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
Of course, Albert didn’t respond to this.
“It’s been one hell of a day,” Fletch continued. “Would you do one last thing for me? Just hold me, like a friend would.”
Albert whispered, “May I remind you we are in the Bureau’s designated hotel? No doubt our rooms are bugged.”
“That’s why I asked you in the corridor,” Fletch retorted with a smile.
“The corridor is probably bugged, too.”
“But they’d only be watching or listening if they thought there was something going on.”
Albert let out a breath. “You want me to treat you like a friend,” he asked, “when anyone could walk by?”
Fletcher’s smile grew. “Ruin your reputation, I know, the thought of you having a friend.”
A full wattage glower blazed into him, but then Albert was reaching his arms around Fletcher’s shoulders in a brief but strong hug. “Is that how it’s done?” Albert asked, sour. “Apart from the backslapping, of course.”
And then he was gone, and his door was shut behind him. Fletcher was grinning. No matter how the man tried to deny it, Albert was so damned vulnerable where Fletch was concerned. And Fletcher was determined to treat him as finely as he deserved.
They were back at Garrett’s as the sun rose, and the heat rose with it. Mac and Celia climbed out of their car to greet them and to stretch their legs. Fletcher joined them, asking, “Anything happen?”
“Good morning, Fletch,” Mac said politely. He shared a laugh with Celia at Fletcher’s chagrined expression, then said, “Nothing happened. He didn’t stir all night.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be. A couple of times, I walked around the block - you can get a good view of his back windows if you know where to stop - otherwise, we were both out here and wide awake all night. I don’t think he’d be able to get away across the back fence without making a ruckus. So he’s still in there and still in bed, as far as I can tell.”
“Good,” Fletcher said, nodding. “Good work, both of you.”
“So what’s next?”
“Get some sleep, whatever you need, but then get back to it. I’m still interested in the unsolved cases on the police records but seeing as there are no rules, I want you to start gathering any information on this guy, any way you can. Where he’s lived, what work he’s done, who his friends are, what his finances are like. You probably know better than me what to look for and how to get it.”
“Sure,” Mac said. “Celia, you can work on the stuff that’s public record, can’t you?”
“Yes, I can, but not right away. Fletch, I’m due some leave, so I thought I’d take a week or two off, just while we’re doing this. The catch is that there are a few things I need to clear up first.”
“That’s fine, Celia. If you’re happy to take some time off, of course that’s fine with me.” He smiled at them both. “I really appreciate this. If I was hesitant last night, it wasn’t because I don’t want you on the team. I’m just worried about the fallout, that’s all.”
They returned his smile. “We’ll be in touch,” Mac said, and the pair of them got back into Mac’s car and drove off.
Fletcher returned to his car, where Albert waited. “Nothing to report,” Fletcher told him. Then he added, “I’d expected you to bring some reading material, or even some work. Do you realize I’ve never once seen you sit around and do nothing?”
“But we are not doing nothing. We are on surveillance.”
“Well, I can watch and you can do your work, if that’s what you want.”
Albert said dryly, “That would be fine, if you didn’t keep losing yourself in your thoughts. Convince me that you can pay adequate attention and I’ll be glad to do other work as well.”
Fletcher smiled self-consciously. “All right. I’ll try harder.”
Not bothering to reply directly, Albert indicated Garrett’s house. Fletcher turned his head to see Garrett again strolling towards them. The man appeared tired and pale, as if he hadn’t slept much, and his expression of good humor was forced. He stopped by Fletcher’s open window and looked at them both. Then he nodded his head towards Albert and said, “Who’s the goon, Agent Ash?”
The description was so incongruous that Fletcher glanced around to ensure it was Albert in the car with him. “This is Dr Albert Sterne, of the FBI. The best forensic pathologist in the country. He’s going to be my leading expert witness at your trial.”
“Really.” Garrett seemed unimpressed. “What’s he doing out of the morgue? No dead bodies here to get his thrills from.”
Fletcher stared at the man. “What a strange notion. I’ve never heard the like before, have you, Albert? Mr Garrett, why is it that the first thing you think of in relation to forensics is the thrill of dealing with dead bodies?”
Garrett returned his stare, furious, those blue eyes frozen. “Don’t get too cute, Agent Ash. Don’t go drawing inferences that you can’t support.”
“I don’t have to draw inferences, or speculate, or make conclusions. I know you’re a killer, Mr Garrett, and I will prove it in a court of law.”
“More day dreams.” Garrett leaned closer. “You might not listen to that clown Halligan, and I don’t blame you, but I have friends who the Director of the FBI listens to. And when the Director hears what’s going on, marginalized grunts like you and your goon here are going to find yourselves in it up to your eyeballs.”
Nodding genially, Fletcher said, “You take it as high as you like, Mr Garrett. You have far more to lose than we do.” The man turned his back and walked to his car. Fletcher had planned to say something about trying Garrett’s case in whichever of the four states had the death penalty, but he lost his nerve. There was time for that kind of threat later.
As they drove off, following Garrett, Albert said quietly, “Don’t misinterpret his comment about forensic pathologists. It is a popular myth that we’re all necrophiliacs.”
Fletcher, already feeling somewhat shaken, had no idea how to reply to that.
The previous night, Fletcher had slept soundly and deeply. He’d taken this as another indication that he’d made the right decision. The return of his humor and his energy and his appetite all seemed to support the notion that, in this case, there were no rules.
Tonight, however, he was restless. He’d allotted himself and Albert six hours of rest, and he’d been determined to make the most of it, to sleep well and wake refreshed. It seemed that was not to be. Knowing that Albert, and Albert’s arms around him, would help him settle only added to his dissatisfaction.
Too keen, that was his trouble. Too eager to go pester Garrett again, to progress the case. Too pumped full of adrenalin. Fletcher had always been the sort who, once he knew what he wanted, would jump in with both feet. He found control and patience to be a trial. Right now, he could keep working, use all this restless energy, that was defi
nitely the option he’d prefer - but he knew it was only a short term option. And Garrett was a long term problem. At least, Fletcher couldn’t afford to burn out; he had to be prepared to deal with this for however long it took. Even though, now that all rules were off, events would surely speed up. That was what he needed to do - provoke Garrett into doing or saying something rash.
Somehow, as his thoughts churned through this for the tenth time, Fletcher slipped into sleep, into dreams.
The nightmare was different this time. At first, he didn’t even recognize it. He wasn’t hanging on, he wasn’t scrambling up, he wasn’t in danger. He was simply walking in the mountains, in the Rockies south of Denver, high above the timber-line. The sky was limitless blue, the air thin and pure. He was alone.