The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (70 page)

Fletcher prevented himself from protesting at the title - he had not been acting officially tonight, he did not feel as if he were still an agent of the FBI - but he was smart enough and cynical enough to let the lieutenant treat him as one. Very evenly, he said, “For the record, Lieutenant Halligan, I  came here with the aim of breaking the deadlock in my investigation and arresting Mr Garrett. I  did not intend to kill him, though I realized it was possible that either he or I, or both of us, might die as a result of me coming here. When it happened, it was a situation he forced. He wouldn’t let me arrest him, he didn’t want to go to jail. So he was determined either to kill me or to be killed. I’m not happy about it, Halligan, but that’s what happened and I don’t think I’d do anything differently if I had it to do over.”

After a moment, Halligan nodded. “All right. I’m going to turn this tape off now and listen to the other tapes.” He waited a moment but, when Fletch didn’t argue, he pressed the stop button.

Grimacing at the thought of reliving it all, Fletcher said, “Tape five, if you want the end of it. This one.”

With the volume down, so that only Fletch and Halligan could clearly hear it, the lieutenant played the tape. There was the last of Garrett describing how he used the political system as part of his cover, and then Fletch asking about the victims. Garrett asking whether Fletcher was queer. A long silence, but then Garrett’s words made it clear, if Halligan had doubts, that he was the serial killer Fletch had known him to be. The recorded voice became louder in response to Fletcher’s questions as they briefly discussed his family. Fletcher didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be listening to this.

One of the uniformed officers came in to the kitchen with a large cardboard box in his arms. “Look at this, Lieutenant.”

Halligan, intent on the tape, said, “In a minute.” But Fletcher, seeking any distraction, wandered over to the table where the man dumped his burden.

The box was full of silver chains and crucifix earrings, watches and wallets. There were a couple of folders containing neatly cut newspaper clippings, many of which Fletcher recognized from his own files. There was Drew’s college ID card, the notice of Sam’s funeral, a gold chain that might have been Mitch’s, a bracelet of woven turquoise beads that might have been Tony’s.

Fletcher had known, of course, that Garrett killed these young men. But to be faced with what little remained of their lives brought all his sorrow cascading back like the deluge of a New Orleans rainstorm. He grabbed up two handfuls of the dead jewelry and sat down, bowing his head, grieving over it if only he weren’t so numb. He should be crying right now, he should be crying his heart out for the twenty-two boys and for himself. Even for John Garrett.

Time passed. Dimly aware of the murmur of his own voice on the tape and Garrett yelling; cops all over the house searching for further evidence; Albert and another man dealing with the body, preparing to bundle it up and take it to the morgue. Time stretched, though it could only have been minutes until a gunshot blasted from the cassette player. Once. Twice.

Standard operating procedure. In his broadest Irish accent, Mac had always described it as
To be sure, to be sure.
Fletcher used to smile at that.

Halligan at last wandered over, cast an uninterested eye over the box and its contents. Eventually he said, “You were right about John Garrett.”

“Yes,” said Fletcher, lifting his head, hands still heavy with cold metal.

“And you’re not going to say you told me so?”

Fletcher shrugged a little. “No.”

A brief silence. “Guess we should have been more willing to believe you.”

“No. You did what you thought was right. Can’t ask for more than that.”

Apparently that was as much of an apology and an acceptance as Halligan was prepared for. He continued, all business now, “There’ll be an internal investigation. Maybe a grand jury, but I doubt it, they’re not going to indict you for murder.”

“Perhaps a grand jury should consider the matter as an abuse of civil rights.”

“You tell me, you’re the fed. Anyway, you’re free to go for now.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Fletcher sighed. “Perhaps I’ll take a look around here. I  won’t touch anything,” he quickly promised. “But I want to get a better feel for who he was.”

Halligan nodded. “That’s fine.”

Alone again amidst the bustle, Fletcher began putting the jewelry back into the box, examining each piece as he did. What with the wallets and the newspaper clippings, he should be able to identify all twenty-two of the boys, which would at least close the books on some missing person cases. Allow some grieving parents to at last know the truth, terrible though it was. ‘It was the not knowing that was the worst,’ Tony’s sister, Jane Shields, had said. ‘It was the hoping he’d walk in the door one day, though he never did.’

When he was done, Fletcher stood and found Albert waiting for him. The man said, “I’ll take a swab of your hands.”

It would have been funny under any other circumstances. Not that there were any other circumstances it could have happened in, with Fletcher admitting to shooting a man and Albert seeking the evidence of gunpowder residue. “You’re so damned thorough,” Fletch complained, but he sat again for the procedure. Albert, deft in rubber gloves, moistened a cotton ball from a small bottle, swiped it over the back of Fletcher’s right hand, and placed it in a plastic bag. He repeated the procedure for the palm of the right hand, and then the same for the left.

“All done?” Fletcher asked. When Albert nodded, Fletcher turned away, wandered out to the living room. He didn’t want to see Garrett’s body being carried out. Knowing he should be curious about this house, Fletcher spent a few minutes in each room, trying not to get in the way of the cops who were looking through everything. It was just a house, and strangely empty now as if it knew its sole occupant was dead. Fletcher remained unloved.

Once the ambulance had taken Garrett away and while Albert was too busy gathering evidence in the kitchen to notice his absence, Fletcher walked out the front door, climbed into his car, and drove away.

The sun rose behind him, glaring gold in the rear vision mirror, as he left New Orleans.

Mid-morning. Fletcher was parked off the road, looking down over a small and uninspiring beach. Must have driven into Texas, must have only recently stopped given how far that was, though he had no memory of any of it. There was no traffic, no one else around.

The ocean shifted under the sunlight, restless shimmers. The most minimal of waves broke a few feet out, surged onto the sand only to listlessly fall back again.

Fletcher rubbed at his face but he really didn’t want to wake up, didn’t want to get to the other side of this numbness. He was tired and aching and afraid of the despair he was going to start feeling soon. He felt grubby all over and thoroughly confused. Battered and used.

The ocean waited.
Let me wash you clean.

He was heading down the dunes to the beach, stripping off his clothes and empty holster, letting them fall to the sand, walking naked into the water. Fresh and invigorating, not cold. Welcoming. Fletcher strode out until he was waist deep, enjoying the water’s resistance to each step, and then he began swimming.

Good to feel his body work, all of it in splendid coordination, strong and able. Traveling through the water as if it were his home. The tiredness and the aches, the sweat and the grubbiness sloughed off him, dissolved in the salt water.

Amazing how far he’d reached. He floated on his back for a while, having glanced back to see the land distant. It was good out here, away from all the trouble and confusion. Away from the guilt and despair. The ocean bore him gently as if he were its child, rocking him in the sunlight, lapping at him.

Maybe he should just stay out here. Maybe he should keep swimming. Maybe this was the only peace he would ever know.

Albert could never follow him here, though, Albert would never share this peace. Albert would be left alone and grieving, would repress all that love and passion in him so deep that it would never see the light again.

Poor Albert, left behind to endure. Poor Fletcher  -

He shouted. It was so unexpected and so full a shout, that Fletch promptly lost his balance and submerged, trying not to let the shout grow into a laugh. If he was going to drown, it wasn’t going to be because he couldn’t stop laughing. When he surfaced, Fletch began treading water. The burst of self-mockery, the joyous uncompromising thrust of truth, had faded already - but the revelation it brought hadn’t.
Who am I trying to fool?
Fletcher asked.
I’m considering suicide.

If that was what he was going to do, then it would have to be a conscious decision. None of this swimming off south, conveniently ignoring the fact that he wouldn’t be able to reach land again. How romantic and melodramatic an end, with his clothes a sad trail on the shore. How lonely and pointless and stupid a death. What a ghastly thing to do to Albert.

No. If he’d survived the night, if he’d lived through the confrontation with Garrett, then Fletcher could survive the aftermath. He’d been prepared to die in return for something of the utmost importance - but that didn’t mean he
had
to die now that he’d achieved that goal. Ludicrous notion.

He’d killed a man, but he would manage somehow to live with that. Fletcher would give the blood-guilt its due, would make some kind of reparation. He’d probably never be quite the same again but he’d get beyond the pain of it. He owed it to Albert and he owed it to himself. Fletcher almost laughed again. He’d been prepared to die to ensure Garrett killed no more, and yet here he was considering whether to become Garrett’s posthumous twenty-third victim. Ridiculous, truly ridiculous.

For a moment, joy threatened. This case, this horrible case was over now. Fletcher needed to tie up all the loose ends, he needed to talk to the families of those young men who’d died, but it was over. All those years of unrecognized work were over. And he’d won.

Fletcher began swimming, heading for what he thought must be the beach he’d started from.

Leaving the ocean, he felt the clarity and the cleanliness falling away from him again. But he was alive, and he was determined to stay that way. Without bothering to dry himself, Fletcher pulled on his clothes, and walked up to the car. Luckily, no one had stolen it, though he’d left the keys in the ignition. He climbed in, and turned the car around, drove down the road.

Now, if only he could find some signposts, he’d get back to New Orleans.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

NEW ORLEANS

SEPTEMBER 1985

Albert once again found himself pacing the length and breadth of Ash’s hotel room. He was furious. It was two in the afternoon, Ash had left John Garrett’s house at some time between five and five-thirty that morning, and nothing had been seen or heard of him since. This was absolutely typical of the self-indulgent, melodramatic, thoughtless idiot.

McIntyre and Mortimer were afraid, even Halligan was worried. More to the point, Halligan’s suspicions of Ash’s motives had been re-awoken. McIntyre wouldn’t express his concerns directly but it was obvious he thought Ash might try to destroy himself in one way or another. If Ash didn’t return, Halligan was planning to issue an APB as soon as the twenty-four hours were up; he’d already told the patrol cops to keep a watch for Ash in the bars.

Furious. What possessed Ash to create this mess? It hardly helped his case of self-defense to run as if he’d committed murder. There was no rationality behind this disappearance, no logic, no consideration.

Except for an hour late that morning, Albert had remained at the hotel, waiting for Ash. Had remained in Ash’s room, with strict instructions to the hotel staff to put any calls through to him there - had stood next to the phone, but for brief mindless wanderings around the room, restless due to this mental and physical inactivity. Having conducted his own examination of the body at the scene, Albert hadn’t even attended Garrett’s autopsy, delegating Mortimer to assist instead. And if Ash didn’t like that, given he had told Albert to be involved in the procedure, Ash was in no position to argue.

Furious.

This waiting was pointless, really. It achieved nothing. In fact, Albert’s only useful activity since six that morning was during the hour he was absent from the hotel, which left seven very empty hours in his day filled with nothing but impatient fury. Though, if Ash didn’t return, the arrangements Albert had made during that solitary hour would become pointless, too. He wasn’t used to wasting time, wasn’t comfortable with it, couldn’t remember ever just doing nothing like this. But, after a few attempts, he’d found he couldn’t settle to any task, couldn’t even settle to any productive thoughts.