The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  He walked, happy and confident. This was a good dream. The air was cool with that brisk sparkling clear coolness he loved. He’d left the damp heavy heat of New Orleans behind, along with the stale conditioned air of the hotel room. This was his idea of perfection.

  When he came to the edge of the mountain, a cliff abruptly giving way to the valley below, Fletcher thought, No rules and no hostages. And he kept walking.

  At first it felt like flying, soaring in the endless champagne air, the pale blue surrounding him. But too soon he was tumbling. There were grey jagged rocks, thousands of feet below, rapidly drawing closer. I’m flying, he told himself. No rules and no gravity.

  The sharp hard rocks disagreed. The valley floor beckoned. Let us bear your broken body. Fletcher saw himself down there already, on his back, limbs gangling unnatural, a shattered wretch in this barren place two miles above sea level. The rocks exposed him, displayed him to the cool air, the merciless mountain peaks, the pale sun.

  It wasn’t Fletcher down there - someone waited, arms outstretched in welcome. Someone with ice blue eyes. Garrett. “You’re like me now,” the man said, with that charming smile. “No rules, right?”

  “No!” Fletch protested.

  “You understand me so well.”

  The tumble became a hundred-mile-an-hour rush. Fletcher struggled, trying to reach the mountainside. Tried to imagine himself clinging there, safe. Hopeless. Where the hell was Albert when Fletch needed him?

  “Once you’ve made the decision, there’s no turning back, no regrets. You’ll learn to love it.”

  “No!”

  “Welcome,” Garrett said to him.

  So close: Garrett almost touched him but Fletcher sat up in the bed, gulping conditioned air down a raw throat. His scream still seemed to echo amongst the mountains.

  Not mountains. Walls. Gradually the room settled into dim familiar shapes. Slowly he lay back down again - then curled up on his side rather than mirror that wretch broken by the rocks.

  Symptom of a troubled conscience, he told himself. Perhaps the nightmare would never leave him: perhaps it would only get worse. Perhaps it was more than time to actually examine the thing, to consider it rather than ignore it. But that seemed too brave a notion here, alone and in the dark.

  If Albert were sharing his bed, the fear would once again be dispelled with a few blunt words and a solid embrace. But that wasn’t possible; Fletcher couldn’t even go knock on Albert’s door and ask for his comfort.

  Fletcher sighed, turned on the light and got out of bed. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he might as well get some work done.

  “Come and have a drink with me, Agent Ash.”

  Fletcher had been gazing nowhere, deep in his thoughts, Albert silent beside him. A little startled, Fletch looked up through the car window at Garrett. They were in the French Quarter again, where Garrett often stopped after work. “I’m on duty, Mr Garrett.”

  The man sighed, impatient. His humor and his reasonableness had dwindled to nothing over the past few days. “Agent Ash, we need to end this investigation of yours, one way or the other. Come and talk with me, and let’s see if we can sort something out.”

  “If you want to talk, why don’t you get in the back seat? We could go do this properly, in a police station.”

  “Don’t you have a life, Ash? Is that the problem? You don’t have anything better to be doing with your time than bothering me.”

  “There’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now, Garrett.”

  “Well, I have a business to run. This is ridiculous. People are beginning to ask me what’s going on.”

  Fletcher remained silent.

  “I thought you’d welcome the offer to talk with me.”

  “Why? Are you going to make a full confession?”

  “Come on, get out of the damned car and talk.”

  After a moment, Fletcher climbed out and leaned his arms on the open door. In turn, Garrett propped his rear against the car hood, arms crossed, expression open. It made a casual, friendly tableau. Fletch asked, “You want to confess to murder, right here in the street?”

  Garrett almost laughed at that, though he was obviously exasperated. “If I did, this would be just the city for it.”

  “Is that why you came here? It’s a lot different to Oregon.”

  “I came here looking for business opportunities, Ash, and I found them. Everyone’s crazy to renovate these old houses before they rot away.”

  “Lots of good-looking young men, too.”

  Garrett sketched a smile. “You noticed that?”

  Fletch shrugged, ostensibly uninterested. “What did you want to talk about, Mr Garrett? Were you going to tell me how it felt to rape Mitch Brown? He would have gone down fighting, that’s what they told me. Did you like it when they fought back?”

  Silence for a moment. Garrett shifted his weight, re-crossed his arms. Then, heedless of the couples sauntering by choosing restaurants and bars for the evening, he said, “So you think you’ve linked me to three victims out of - how many? Fourteen?”

  “Fifteen,” Fletcher amended. “Don’t forget Stacey Dixon.”

  “And you can’t link me to the other eleven - twelve, sorry.”

  “Not yet, but there’s plenty of time to get the details once I have you in jail. The trial won’t be for months. Years.”

  Shaking his head, as if all this was not only ridiculous but insignificant as well, Garrett said, “If you had anything on me, you’d have arrested me already.”

  “I’m waiting for more, that’s all. The MO links the victims together, and you’re linked to at least three of them. That’s plenty to be getting on with.”

  “The MO. You mean they were all killed in the same way.”

  “Similar ways,” Fletcher said.

  “Similar? That’s enough to link them, is it, across four states?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how come you’re the only one investigating me, Special Agent?”

  “You know I’m right and I know I’m right. That’s enough for now.” Fletch considered the man. “You only wanted to talk to see how much I know.”

  “You never give up, do you?” Garrett sounded as if he’d be impressed with this persistence if he wasn’t so angry about it.

  “No, I’m not giving up on you,” Fletch said lightly.

  Garrett declared, “This has to end, Special Agent.” He reinforced the statement with a glare and then Garrett turned away, headed for his usual bar. It was obvious he’d been drinking more and more since Fletcher had begun tailing him.

  Fletch watched him go then got into the car again. “This will end,” he murmured.

  “He keeps suggesting you talk with him,” Albert said. “Perhaps he wants to tell you something.”

  “He’ll get the chance soon enough.”

  “You should be encouraging him.”

  “Not yet. I’m working on annoying him right now.” Fletcher turned to his companion, and grinned. “How do you think I’m doing?”

  “Quite well,” Albert said from behind his dark glasses.

  “I know you could do better,” Fletcher assured him. “But I’ve spent all these years annoying you, and I figure that has to count for something.”

  Albert didn’t reply, though he let out a quiet breath. Almost like a laugh. Fletcher chuckled for both of them.

  Halligan shut his office door behind them and got right down to business. “John Garrett’s going to put in an official complaint about you, Ash. My captain’s getting nervous. I’m telling you to back off, and I’m not going to tell you again.”

  Fletcher sat down in the visitor’s chair, and looked at Halligan calmly. “I’m not going to back off, Lieutenant, and you can let the captain know that, too. This man is a killer and I intend to bring him to justice. If he were innocent, he would have lodged a complaint the first day I began pestering him.”

  Halligan shook his head. “It was difficult to take you seriously when you first
arrived because it was so obvious that the FBI didn’t. Sending three people to investigate a serial killer? No chance. Especially when only one of those three is a special agent. Though I have to admit that bastard Sterne has a reputation in forensics. He adds clout to your little team.”

  “I’m sure Albert will be glad to know that.”

  “Sure he will,” Halligan said with a humorless smile. “It was difficult at first, but you’re making it impossible now. If you kept within the law -”

  “I have tried for years, Lieutenant, to keep this within the law. I honestly gave it my best shot when I came here. It cost me a lot to realize that wasn’t going to work.”

  “So it’s cost you some scruples already, big deal. What’s it going to cost you?”

  “What do you honestly recommend I do? Let him go? He’ll move on, and begin killing again. But that’s all right, because when I see the corpses of his next three young men, I’ll think, ‘Yes, I had him in my sights, but I was too decent to pull the trigger.’ What a comfort that decency of mine will be. The families of those young men are sure to understand.”

  “You are running so damned close to the line, Special Agent. Personally, I think you’re already over it. And now you’re talking violence.”

  Fletcher said, “It’s worth stepping over the line.”

  “Maybe I’d agree, if you were sure it’s the right guy.”

  “But he is the right man.” Fletcher sighed. “You said he employed your cousin, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, over the Christmas break. And now he’s employed Andy again, promised him a couple of months’ work.”

  “Andy?” Fear crawled through Fletch. He hadn’t expected Garrett to be that provoking. Hiring a boy named Andrew right now was surely equivalent to waving a red flag in Fletch’s face. “How old is your cousin, Halligan? What does he look like?”

  “The kid’s only nineteen. A good-looking sort, and smart, too. Real popular with the college girls.”

  Fletcher rubbed at his face, leaned forward, said, “Andy sounds just his type, Halligan. You watch he doesn’t rape and torture and murder your Andy, too.”

  The lieutenant’s expression was at first sickened but then righteous anger took over. “Yeah, you keep throwing your shit around, Special Agent. You threw it at him during that mockery of an interview, and it didn’t stick. So now you’re throwing it at me again.”

  “It’s the damned truth, Lieutenant.” That was the closest Fletcher had got to shouting.

  “Yeah, well, he might file a complaint about your conduct. He might sue you for libel. He might tell the world you’re prejudiced against him because he’s queer. And good luck to him, I reckon. About the only thing you haven’t done is call the press in.”

  “They’d love all this dirt, wouldn’t they? What a great idea, Halligan. They’d blow the whole thing wide open.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ash. They’d get the waters so muddy you’d never get an indictment.”

  “You admit there’s a possibility I’m right?”

  “There’s always a possibility, isn’t there? I’m warning you, that’s all. The press won’t help your case. They love scandal and they’ll ruin John, but they won’t help your case against him.”

  After a long moment, during which Halligan sweated, Fletcher nodded. “That was my conclusion, as well.”

  Halligan was still looking disgruntled. “One more thing,” he said. “Next time you have something to say to me about how I run this outfit, or how my men behave, you tell me to my face. Don’t go setting Sterne onto me. He has the rudest mouth I’ve ever heard, which is good for a man who never damn well swears.”

  Fletcher didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “When was this? What did he say?”

  “After your interview with John Garrett. Said young Bill had undermined your authority and I shouldn’t have let that happen, or words to that effect. Well, maybe I shouldn’t have, but I won’t be spoken to like that in front of my own men.”

  “All Albert told me was that he’d asked you to conduct surveillance for a while and that you refused. But I can imagine how he phrased the request.” Fletcher decided to laugh. Albert was certainly looking out for Fletcher’s interests at present. “I’m not going to apologize, Lieutenant. I wasn’t going to make an issue of it, but I should have had more support from you and your people. On the other hand, Albert no doubt said some things he shouldn’t have. Let’s call it even, all right?”

  Eventually Halligan nodded, but he also said, “I still think you’re after the wrong man.”

  “Support me and we’ll get to the truth of it. That’s my best offer.” And it seemed reasonably acceptable. A temporary truce was declared.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  NEW ORLEANS

  SEPTEMBER 1985

  Albert ate the room service meal without any appreciation. Rather than detail and categorize all the meal’s failings, however, he considered the man sitting across the table from him. While it had been Fletcher’s idea to have a late dinner in Albert’s room, for the sake of quiet and the illusion of privacy, he seemed as dissatisfied as Albert was. He made little attempt to eat. In Albert’s dispassionate opinion, Fletcher looked terrible.

  The pale face and bruised eyes and fatigued expression were presumably the result of a combination of factors: coping for an extended period with little sleep; working hard, with little obvious result, on a case Fletcher had always found emotionally draining; waiting through a situation he was not fully in control of; hating the fact he was working outside both the law enforcement system and his own system of ethics, even though Fletcher realized that it was the only course of action he could take; spending hours crammed with activity, followed by hours of monotonous surveillance. Once this case was finally resolved, whether successfully or not, Fletcher would be a ravaged wreck. A melodramatic description but given that this was Fletcher Ash, a true enough one. How Albert was then going to deal with the man was another question entirely.

  The silence continued unbroken while Albert ate. Once Albert had set aside his plate and cutlery, however, and before he could reach for some reading material, Fletcher said, “I know you’ll disapprove but I think I’ll take the night off. And you can, too, of course.” He continued in hurried explanation, “Mac and Celia said they’d take a longer shift, if we give them some time off tomorrow night.”

  “All right,” Albert said.

  “You’re supposed to be talking me out of this.”

  “Am I? I agree that you would benefit from time off duty but I’d be surprised if you were able to sleep well or even relax.”

  “Well, it’s no use asking you for tips on how to relax,” Fletcher commented with a faint smile. Then he said, “Sorry. No doubt you’re right but I intend to try. Meanwhile, you’ll have plenty to catch up with, I assume.”

  “Yes, I have work to progress. If you require me and I’m not here, I’ll probably be at the Bureau offices.”

  Fletcher nodded. “I think I’ll turn in. Would you do me a favor? Don’t disturb me unless it’s really urgent. I’ll ask reception to put any calls through here, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Of course.”

  The man stood and walked around the table to where Albert sat. A long moment, as Fletcher gazed down at him. Then he gripped Albert’s shoulder, and said, “Goodnight, Albert,” in meaningful tones.

  “Goodnight,” Albert curtly replied, frowning up at him. This sort of behavior usually signified that Fletcher wanted to say something personal but was managing to restrain himself. Given that the behavior was so easy to interpret, it didn’t serve to hide anything. Annoyed at the man, Albert was surprised to find himself reacting to the subtext. He lifted a hand to Fletcher’s, grasped it briefly, and said, “Get some rest.”

  Fletcher nodded. “Necessary,” he said. “Absolutely necessary.” An observer might have assumed he was commenting on his need for sleep. And then Fletcher was gone, and Albert was alone.

  This w
as almost too convenient. Albert decided to work in the hotel room for an hour, so that he was available in case Fletcher changed his mind. If he remained undisturbed until ten o’clock, then Albert would leave. He had plans, and he would put off both sleep and the bulk of his work for a few hours until he could see those plans through.

  Albert cast a glance around the diner and chose a booth as far away as possible from the few other patrons. Not bothering to take off his jacket, he sat down and watched the two waiters sharing a joke with the cook. The atmosphere here was definitely slow and casual.

  Within a few minutes, however, one of the waiters approached this new customer. Albert had the chance to observe him: a man in his early thirties; dressed in torn blue jeans, a faded green T-shirt, and an open shirt patterned in darker greens and blues, with a small apron around his hips that might once have been white; long dark brown hair caught back in a tail; deep brown eyes that were warm if not friendly. When he spoke, it was all on a breath: “Hello, what can I get you?”