The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (69 page)

“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.

Dull and slow, he remembered that he’d moved the cassette player, and Halligan had told him not to touch anything. He allowed himself a sigh, and said, “For the record, I  picked this chair up from the floor. I’d been sitting on it but when he began pushing at the table, I  stood and slid the chair out of the way. It was on its side a few feet away.” Would Albert appreciate this pedantic detail? “I  also righted the cassette player, which had fallen on its face. I  brought the phone over to the table.” Damn this. “I  checked his right wrist for a pulse. I  haven’t touched anything else.”

The silence returned. Fletcher closed his eyes rather than look at the gun. Time stretched impossibly.
Let this be over.
Stillness like a dead weight bearing down on him.

And then at last the clatter of the front door opening, footsteps approaching, some heading into the living room. Fletcher opened his eyes. A uniformed officer was gazing at him from just inside the doorway, a strange mix of wariness and curiosity in his expression. The cop called back over his shoulder, “He’s in here.”

Halligan walked in, more of them pushed by - a motley surge of uniforms and plain clothes - some crouching over Garrett’s body checking for signs of life, others looking around for anything else of interest. “Ash,” Halligan said in terse greeting.

“Lieutenant,” Fletcher acknowledged.

“Is that your gun?” The man tilted his head towards the table.

“Yes. It’s the gun I shot Garrett with.”

“I see. Self-defense, you said.”

“Yes. This cassette player has been recording the whole time. Since before midnight, anyway. You can hear what happened.” As if on cue, the tape ran out, and the player clicked off. Fletcher and Halligan looked at it for a moment, but the sharp sound barely drew glances from the others.

The place was swarming with activity, with Fletcher and Garrett and Halligan at the heart of it. But then, for Fletch at least, the stillness gained a different focus: Albert had walked in, metal case in hand. Dark eyes searching, quickly finding him, sweeping intense across Fletcher as if to see for himself that Fletch was still whole and breathing. If there was relief, Fletcher couldn’t make it out. Perhaps there was anger, perhaps outrage, but Fletcher didn’t have time to fathom it. With barely a nod of greeting, Albert headed over to stand by the body, watching as the crime scene officers took photographs and outlined Garrett in white adhesive tape.

Already, they were rolling Garrett over to lie on his back. Fletcher made himself glance once at the man’s face -
I  know what I’ve done
- then turned away.

Albert finally looked up at Fletcher again, and said, “You want me to assist with this procedure.”

“Yes, Albert. The Bureau will want you involved, they’ll want their own reports.”

The briefest of pauses, as if Albert wanted to say something despite all these people hovering around. Fletcher waited, needing whatever reassurance he could get. But it was silly to expect Albert to ask Fletch if he was all right, pointless to want Albert to be polite as if he were any ordinary person.

Halligan spoke first. “I hope you don’t want Sterne here to muddy the waters. Arguing jurisdiction is only going to mess this up even more.”

Fletch said very calmly, “It’s a Bureau matter, Lieutenant, because I’m directly involved. But I’m asking you to take part for the sake of clearing this up. I  want everyone to be satisfied with the result.”

“Don’t expect me to let Sterne get you off the hook, Ash. I’m playing this one strictly by the book.”

“Of course you are. And Dr Sterne will behave as scrupulously as always.” Such a damned effort to maintain this carefully balanced truth and politeness and reason, when all Fletch wanted to do was go hide in a corner somewhere and cry his heart out. “It’s best that both the Bureau and the police are involved, Lieutenant, that’s the bottom line. Both agencies have an interest in knowing what happened. Let’s work together on this one.”

At last Halligan gave him a grudging nod, even seemed to relax. Perhaps the toughness had been partly an act in order to sound Fletcher out. “All right,” the man said. “Come over here, Ash, and let them get on with it.”

A glance at Albert, but his expression was even more unreadable now that Albert was on the job. Surprisingly enough, the man seemed to be cooperating well with the crime scene officer, though there were minimal words exchanged. And then Albert glanced up at Fletch, and the younger man could feel the anger. Of course. Albert was unique, but he was still human. His reactions at being lied to, and to his lover putting himself in a dangerous situation, were going to be much the same as anyone else’s when faced with betrayal and a loss narrowly averted.

Fletcher nodded in acknowledgment of this, picked up the cassette player and a fresh tape, and headed over to where Halligan stood by the kitchen benches. It was a relatively small room but at least the table now blocked the view of Garrett’s body.

“Tell me what happened, Ash,” Halligan said. When Fletcher plugged the player into a nearby electrical outlet, moving a toaster to do so, Halligan asked, “Why do you need that?”

“By the book, Lieutenant, remember? It’s best that we’re all clear about everything that’s said and done tonight.” The man was watching him, almost suspicious, but with no reason to prevent this. Fletcher pressed the record button. “Tape six, side one. This is Fletcher Ash talking with Lieutenant Harry Halligan. It’s three-fifty in the morning, the previous tape ran out some minutes ago. We are still in John Garrett’s kitchen.” Then he waited for Halligan to start again.

“All right. Tell me what happened.”

And Fletcher went through it all, beginning with the decision to confront Garrett alone. He detailed as much of his early conversation with Garrett as he could remember, describing how that led to Garrett’s confession and his agreement to tape an informal interview. Halligan, naturally, was interested in the fact that some of the earlier conversation had been witnessed. “The young man’s name was Steve,” Fletcher repeated. “I  don’t know his last name but he worked for Garrett so he won’t be hard to find. Early twenties, long blond hair, very slim. They appeared to have a sexual relationship, they were very comfortable with each other.”

“I’ll tread carefully,” Halligan said.

“Steve appeared to be mildly stoned, Lieutenant, and both of them had been drinking. The boy didn’t even pick up on the seriousness of what was going on. Don’t expect him to verify everything I’ve told you, except the obvious.”

Apparently Halligan was satisfied with this. “Anything else for now, Special Agent?”