The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  “Yeah,” Fletch murmured, “I know.” ‘Favors and bribes’ was how Albert had described it. Not a nice idea, Xavier being friends with a man like this for the sake of his money and support. At first Fletcher felt relieved that it was years since Garrett was in Denver because that meant he’d missed the beginning of Xavier’s career - and then Fletch wondered what sort of people Xavier was mixed up with now instead.

  “It’s easy,” Garrett was continuing. “Never enrolled to vote, though, no one ever realized that. Never gave anyone my name and address I didn’t have to.”

  This was exhausting. Not only the late hour and that they had just begun on the fifth tape, but the very nature of the interview was draining Fletcher. And then there was all the tension of fearing what the outcome would be. Nevertheless, he had a few more questions to ask. His first priority, of seeking enough verifiable evidence to arrest and convict the man, had been fairly well covered. The second priority, of discovering what crimes Garrett had committed that Fletch didn’t already know about, was broadly met - though Fletcher needed names and more detail. His third priority, of discovering something of who Garrett was, required some further answers. Fletcher asked, “What’s the link between the victims?”

  Garrett didn’t reply, again seemed to have lost interest.

  “What are the similarities? What are you looking for?”

  “What do you think?”

  “For a start, they’re all attractive. Is that vanity on your part, or is there some reason?”

  “You understand, Ash. You find them attractive.” Garrett smiled a little. “Are you queer, too?”

  Fletcher said, very easily, “No.”

  There was a silence, as Garrett returned to his own thoughts. At least, Fletcher took the time to reflect, I’m a better liar than an honest man should be. Discovering this fact was merely one more of a million reasons he didn’t want to be here, to be doing this.

  From the first, when he’d resolved on this confrontation, Fletcher had little faith he would survive the night. Though he seemed to have Garrett fooled with his mock confidence, Fletcher took the man’s threats seriously. But Fletcher remained certain of one thing: if he was going to die tonight then he would take Garrett with him. This is the end of the line.

  And the latest lie was easy, too, though with it he denied his love for Albert. Don’t believe me, Albert, just like you never believe me. It was easy to lie because some day half the people in America would be listening to this tape. Fletcher had never really known whether he’d be able to lie if Caroline asked him directly. He couldn’t quite imagine how she’d word it. Probably something like, ‘Fletcher, please tell me my suspicious mind has been working overtime. You’re not having sex with Albert Sterne, are you? I don’t know how I could ever have even thought such a ghastly thing.’

  But he should be able to lie to Caroline - he’d lied to Albert, Mac and Celia that night, after all. And they had accepted the stories necessary to ensure Fletcher could do this on his own, they had trusted him enough to not even question him. He’d lied because he had to do this, and they would have stopped him. Because they shouldn’t be a part of this horrible thing, or no more a part of it than they already were.

  Strange that he and John Garrett should be sitting here silently, each immersed in their own thoughts, almost like companions. How can this be possible? And what the hell is going through Garrett’s mind right now? Fletcher let out a quiet breath, recalled his last topic. “Your victims,” he said, and Garrett lifted his head, looking almost as dull as when Fletch had arrived that night. “You said something about wanting them to be real. What does that mean?”

  “Important to know them, know who they are.” He shrugged, asked heavily, “What does it matter?”

  “It matters,” Fletcher said. “Most of them were young men who had a future, who were doing things with their life, who had potential. Why?”

  “Important they didn’t surrender.” The words almost listless. “They had spunk, they fought me, that was the best. They had further to fall.”

  Fletch abruptly asked, “What made you this way?”

  That seemed to generate a little more interest. Garrett looked across at Fletcher. “Wanted to play football, they never let me on the team. Didn’t do well at school, grades were poor, wanted to go to college, had to work instead. Things might have been different.”

  “It can’t be that simple, John.”

  “If I’d known I was queer,” Garrett said, apparently appealing to Fletch. “Might have been different. If I’d had a friend, a boyfriend.”

  “Maybe. But there’s a lot of other men out there who never got to play football, who never had a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Why didn’t they become killers?”

  “They weren’t as smart as me.”

  “Tell me about your parents, John.”

  This obviously annoyed the man. He shrugged and looked away. “My father left us when I was a kid, left us for good. My mother - hell, she never did anything in her life but get pregnant and drink herself to death. Why?” Garrett asked with great sarcasm. “Think I’m their fault?”

  “There’s no easy answers for any of us. I don’t know what made me the way I am, either.”

  “Then don’t practice your psychology on me. Amateur hour. Who are you to tell me it wasn’t because I didn’t go to college? What do you want to hear?” The tirade grew louder: “You want to hear my father hit me? My mother tied me to a chair because she was too drunk to look out for me? Child abuse, sure it’s in all the newspapers now. Real fashionable. Didn’t know what it was then. No one to help. No one to tell. No friends. Just had to deal with it and do the right thing. Tried to do the right thing, never understood why it was so damned important.”

  Fletcher said quietly, “I’m sorry, John.” Strange that he could feel grief for the boy John Garrett used to be. But grief for the boy didn’t forgive the crimes the man had committed.

  “Fuck you, Ash. You’re twenty years too late with sorry. Don’t want your pity. Obvious no one was going to give me a damned thing, I did the right thing or not. So I took what I wanted. You’re all cowards, living by the rules. Have to be brave enough and smart enough to stop taking all the damned shit.”

  “You’re aware that you’ve broken the rules?”

  “Of course I damned well know.”

  “You realize that murder is wrong? Yet you choose to commit murder.”

  Garrett was glaring at him, furious. “Don’t give me this shit, Ash. If I know right from wrong I’m sane, I can stand trial. Crazy. Right and wrong has nothing to do with it. Right and wrong has nothing to do with laws or what my father told me or any damned thing. Nothing to do with a boy’s pain, nothing to do with the heat when the darkness comes. Said you understood. Said - their death be slow, their terror be great. Right and wrong is nothing compared with that.”

  “John, listen to me,” Fletcher said, very calmly. “Listen to me now. There was a point to it, there was meaning in what you did, when you had control. But you don’t have control over it anymore.”

  “Who the hell are you to tell me that?”

  “You said it yourself. You said it doesn’t mean anything without control.”

  “No,” Garrett said.

  Unsure whether that was agreement or denial, Fletcher continued, “I’m arresting you, Mr Garrett, for the murders of Andrew Harmer, Philip Rohan, Stacey Dixon, Sam Doherty and Tony Shields. I’ll also charge you with the other murders we’ve talked about.” It was almost frightening, how little effort it took for Fletch to list all of the deaths from memory. “One in Illinois, two in Minnesota, three in Washington State, four in Wyoming, three in Colorado, four in Georgia, five in Oregon. Twenty-two murders, Mr Garrett. This is the end of the line.”

  “No.”

  Garrett had both hands on the edge of the table, gripping hard. If he pushed now, Fletcher would be temporarily pinned in his chair. Fletch kept a very wary eye on the man, ready to move.

&nb
sp; “This isn’t the end,” Garrett said, colder now. “Can’t be. Stupid to come here, Ash. Going to kill you. Planned it out for Steve, how it would be, you’ll do instead. Better. You’ll know exactly what I’m doing. How long I can make the pain last.”

  “I’m not going to let that happen, Mr Garrett.”

  “You’ll do fine. Then whatever boys I want. Maybe Steve. Maybe Andy Halligan. Maybe I’m too smart for that. I’ll move on, another state. Find three boys. Another three after that.”

  “Listen to yourself. You used to be in control. You used to wait for two years. You’ve lost the whole point.”

  “No.”

  “You used to be so clever, but you’re making mistakes, John. You’re making mistakes and then deliberately forgetting about them. You’ve got yourself fooled but you can’t fool me.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are, Ash?” The man was almost roaring. “When this ends, it’s on my terms. Long way to go yet. Plenty of deaths along the way.”

  “No, John, this is the end now.”

  “You’re not arresting me, I told you that. Deal is you die or I die. That was the deal. Maybe we both die, Ash.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You die, then. Long and slow. Beautiful. Could make it last for days. Tell me which was your favorite? Which was the one that really turned you on? Maybe Georgia. So brutal, no finesse to those deaths. Mass of pain until the darkness came.”

  Fletcher stared across at the man, unable to respond.

  “You die, and I keep killing. No one else knows what I am. They’ll let me go. Nowhere near finished killing, Ash. So many boys out there. So many lovely boys with the spunk to fight me. Glorious.”

  “I won’t let you go, Garrett. I won’t let you hurt anymore young men.”

  “You’ll let me go. You’ll be a beaten bloody mess. Won’t lift a finger to stop me - your fingers will all be broken.” And the man laughed.

  “I’m arresting you,” Fletch repeated. “Your threats are worthless.”

  “If you’re so damned determined this is the end of the line, Ash, kill me. You die or I die.” Garrett paused, breathing heavily. “What? You’d rather society did it for you. Gas chamber, electric chair, hanging, injection, bloody firing squad. All care, no responsibility. Coward. You want to end this, you end it.”

  “Don’t think I won’t, if you force me to.”

  “Coward, can’t even say it.”

  “Don’t think I won’t kill you, Mr Garrett, if you force me to.” Fletcher explained, “There are a handful of people who have to be fought on their own terms. You’re one of them. And I choose to fight you.”

  “You’d better do it, Ash.”

  Garrett was standing, pushing at the table.

  Fletcher was standing, too, left arm hooking the chair out from behind him, swinging it away, all in one smooth motion, taking one step back - right arm aimed straight at Garrett’s chest, gun steady in his hand. But the table had only shifted an inch. Left arm came up to support the right.

  “Better do it now,” Garrett said. Voice seemed full of adrenalin, full of crazed humor like this was fun, full of serious intent. “Once I get my hands on you, Ash, it’s over. Except for the pain. Days of unbelievable pain. You’ll wonder how it’s possible to survive. Eventually you won’t.”

  “I’m arresting you, John. Step back from the table and put your hands on your head.”

  “I’m taking you with me,” the man was saying, voice full of promise, “whether you live or die.”

  “Step back from the table, John.”

  “You live, you live with me inside you, every day, every hour.”

  “Last chance, John. Step back and put your hands on your head.”

  The man was still for a moment, staring at Fletcher. The air was thick with the possible consequences of whatever happened next.

  Garrett abruptly leaned forward, hands shoving the table to one side out of the way, his whole body behind the push. A roar grew, his mouth opening letting the sound free from his chest. Hands reaching, his fingers talons. One more moment and this powerful man would be upon his next victim.

  Fletch took one step to the side, towards where the table stood askew, gun tracking the centre of Garrett’s chest. I know what I’m doing, Fletcher Ash silently announced, and he pulled the trigger once. Twice.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  NEW ORLEANS

  SEPTEMBER 1985

  Death wasn’t a peaceful closing of the eyes like in the movies. Fletcher stood watching Garrett for a few moments, sick at heart. The man, facedown and shaking as if having a fit, was surely dying if not already dead. Less blood than in the movies, which was a more acceptable state of affairs, and the one exit wound Fletcher could see was simply a mess - none of the detail that the special effects provided these days in gruesome glorifying Technicolor.

  Once the body quieted - must have been minutes or even seconds, not hours - Fletch knelt and tried to find a pulse in the closest wrist. Arm out-flung, as if reaching. Yes, he’d been reaching for Fletcher. Putting the thought away, Fletch carefully searched, but there was nothing: warmth but nothing else, no movement. Warmth bleeding away: not literally yet, but in his imagination the body was already cooling.

  Fletch recovered his chair, sat at the table, carefully placed his gun down. Saw that the cassette player had fallen over, set it upright. It was still recording. Fletcher sighed and said, “I’ve shot him, he’s dead. It’s three-ten on the morning of September second, 1985.” A dull moment passed, though Fletcher knew what he had to do. “I’ll attempt to call Lieutenant Halligan of the NOPD.”

  He let his eyes rove, located the phone over on a kitchen bench. When he went to pick it up, he saw it was on a long lead, so he brought it back to the table. Garrett lay on the floor maybe three feet away. After a few minutes’ search through his wallet, Fletch found the card listing Halligan’s phone numbers, and dialed the man’s home.

  After only two rings, Halligan answered with a barely conscious grunt.

  “Lieutenant, this is Fletcher Ash.”

  “God damn it,” the man said. He sounded more awake when he continued, “Ash, this better be real important.”

  “Yes. I am at John Garrett’s house.” And he gave Halligan the address, just in case the man didn’t know it.

  “What the hell -?” Another pause. “It’s three in the morning. What’s going on?”

  “I have shot him. He’s dead.” Fletcher waited through an ominous silence. “Lieutenant? Perhaps you’d better come here.”

  Grim, Halligan asked, “What happened?”

  “Mr Garrett made a confession on tape. We’ve been talking for hours. He is the serial killer. He was the -” Fletcher broke off.

  “And then you executed him.”

  “Self-defense, Lieutenant. He was about to attack me. I’m not happy about it but he’s dead.”

  “All right. I’ll be there in twenty. I’ll call the crime scene boys, you know the procedure, Ash.”

  “Yes. Of course I am willing to follow procedure. But can you call Albert Sterne, too. I want him here.” Had to be clear about this. “I want him to assist. The Bureau will want him involved.”

  “Right,” Halligan said, abrupt. “Don’t move, don’t touch anything.” And he hung up.

  Fletcher put the phone down, and remained seated. He was about to stop the tape, but thought better of it. Halligan would want to hear for himself that Fletch hadn’t been rearranging the evidence.

  He wondered how he would feel when this numbness wore off. Terrible, he supposed. Fletcher had never wanted to kill anyone. In fact, he’d wanted to never kill anyone. Never figured he would. Feared he might.

  If any one person in the world deserved to die, Fletcher thought, that one was John Garrett, and Fletch of all people knew exactly why. But, even so, who was Fletcher Ash to make that decision, to carry out that judgment?

  Was he going to be able to live with this? Other people did, he
reminded himself. But that didn’t mean anything to him. Live with Garrett’s words in his ears and Garrett’s blood on his hands. Live with twenty-two deaths in his imagination and in his memory. Twenty-two of Garrett’s, and one of his own.

  His gun lay there on the table. It had only been used on a firing range until tonight. Fletcher stared at the thing and considered the nature of justice. Why not use the gun again now, while he felt nothing? Because when he began to feel again, Fletcher suspected he’d never be free of the blood-guilt and the sick terror. He’d killed a man. Where was the justice in that? How could he have taken that responsibility on himself?

  The tape was still running, he could even leave a message, an explanation. A farewell.