The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (27 page)

“She’d died two years before, though I guess that was part of it. Is that the last time you cried? When your parents were killed?”

“It’s late, Ash. Go get some sleep.”

The embrace, however, was not withdrawn, so Fletch assumed that was a
yes
. He wound his arms tighter around Albert’s neat waist, lodged his head comfortably in the crook of Albert’s neck, and told the story. “I  remember it was 1964, because we were watching the TV coverage of the Democratic convention and Bobby Kennedy was there. He stood up at the podium, and they applauded him for fifteen, twenty minutes. Do you remember that? When they finally let him speak, he said that when he thought of President Kennedy, he thought of what Shakespeare wrote in
Romeo and Juliet
- of all the plays to choose for your brother! - and he quoted from it.
When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun
. And I was sitting there in Harley’s arms, sort of like this, bawling my eyes out, partly for JFK and partly because I idolized Harley like that, too.”

It had been a rough couple of years for young Fletcher David Ash, so all that wailing on Harley’s shoulder must have been some kind of necessary catharsis. It was true that he’d never cried since, though tears had often threatened. It wasn’t that he was ashamed to cry, or thought it improper or unbecoming for a man - Fletch simply suspected that if he wept every time life did something terrible to him, there would be no other possible reaction. It would be like giving in to an indulgence that he could not afford, being governed by an emotion that would get him nowhere.

He had a brief but vivid image of himself old and grey at Albert’s funeral: he was wearing one of Albert’s suits because none of his own were good enough; and he wanted to bawl his eyes out like a child, but couldn’t. No one knew they’d been lovers, no one could guess at Fletcher’s grief. Except maybe Fletch would at last meet the mysterious Elliott Meyer, and maybe he could tell the man that Albert had had a share of contentment in his life, though Albert kept his love such a complete secret  …

Fletcher brought his thoughts back to the present, noticing that Albert had remained silent. It appeared that, where Albert had previously provided a sharp retort or an insult, now he would sometimes say nothing. Because he didn’t want to hurt Fletcher? Because he didn’t want to hurt himself? Because he wanted their relationship to be different from what it had started as? It certainly wasn’t because Fletch never disappointed him, the younger man knew that much.

Fletcher asked, “Can I impose on you and sleep here tonight?”

“No, you may not.”

“Why?”

“Don’t be childish, you know very well why. All it would take would be Ross trying to call you and our discretion so far would have been in vain.”

“You being there and holding me helps the nightmares, Albert.” Fletcher lifted his head to meet Albert’s gaze.

“Resorting to emotional blackmail?” the man noted coldly. Then, warming with sarcasm, “I’m so glad to be of use to you as a security blanket. Nevertheless, we can’t spend every night together.”

“What if you come stay in my room? They’re more likely to call me than you.”

“No.”

Fletcher sighed. This was something he wanted badly, but he’d anticipated defeat before he even tried. “How did I end up with a lover so stubborn?”

“By being so stubborn yourself, as I recall.”

“I guess you get what you ask for,” Fletcher observed with a smile, “or what you deserve.”

“How trite. Perhaps you should look for a job composing the messages in greeting cards, or the sayings on cheap desk calendars.”

Fletcher chuckled a little - that was the Albert he knew and loved. “I’ll be sure to consult you when I need a change in career.”

Albert lifted his hands, wove his fingers through Fletcher’s hair, pressed his cheek and lips against Fletcher’s forehead. It wasn’t a kiss, and it was too brief, but it was very nice. Then, in a tone that did not betray any affection, Albert said, “Go to bed. You need sleep.”

Accepting the inevitable, Fletcher hugged the man, then went to his room alone.

The FBI men had been allocated a desk in a small and dingy disused room that opened directly onto the police station’s briefing room - which was fine in one way, because they got to hear everything that went on in every case in the Portland area, but inconvenient in many others, beginning with the distraction and the lack of privacy.

Fletcher was in the cubby-hole now, poring over the transcript of an interview with the mother of the third victim they’d found - and the first to have died - Sam Doherty. He had wanted to attend the interview itself, partly because the disposal of Sam’s body had been inconsistent with the other three and Fletcher had found that the exceptions to the rules often provided the most telling evidence. However, four of the locals had insisted on conducting or observing the interview for various reasons, and a fifth member of the party wasn’t welcome on the grounds that the numbers would be too intimidating. Fletch was left with planning a separate interview, perhaps after the funeral, when he could ask about the men Sam had known, and whether any of them fitted his offender’s profile.

Albert was supposed to be meeting him here, otherwise Fletch would have taken the reports outside into the fresh air despite the cold weather. There wasn’t even a window in sight. He hated not being able to at least see the sky. But, Fletch reminded himself, he should be grateful he was part of this investigation at all, despite the headache he could feel looming. He dug his fingers into his temples, and waited, re-reading the transcribed words for the tenth time, guessing at the meanings revealed only by tone and gesture. He’d read certain phrases so often that his imagination began suggesting ludicrous interpretations on what had no doubt been completely straightforward.

“What kept you?” Fletch asked when Albert turned up.

“The tests took longer than anticipated. One of the samples had been contaminated. Not by me, I hasten to add.”

“But you got it all sorted out?” Of course he had. Fletcher grimaced in reply to Albert’s raised eyebrow, and continued, “I’ve just been going over the interview with Sam Doherty’s mother. It’s very interesting. Sam worked as an apprentice mechanic but he still lived at home. The night he disappeared he told his mother he was meeting a particular friend. The friend, however, says they hadn’t agreed to meet, though he says there was a football game on the television and Sam often turned up to watch it with him; the friend adds that Sam never missed a game. Does this sound familiar to you?”

“Go on,” Albert prompted.

“The only information we have so far on how this guy operates is from Andrew Harmer’s friend, Scott, in Colorado. And Sam fits in with that. I  think this man identifies his victim, then asks the boy home to watch football on television, maybe offering or at least hinting at sex as well, depending on how receptive the boy is.”

“Wasn’t it baseball in Harmer’s case?”

“That’s what Scott said, but he didn’t know anything about sport and Drew wasn’t much better. And, remember, when we checked the programming, the only sport being televised the night Drew disappeared was football.
His
motivation for accepting the invitation was romance. Sam’s might be more related to watching the game. No one’s asked the mother or friend whether Sam was gay, by the way.”

Albert considered all this, then said, “The scenario is possible. Are you going to start looking into the case files of every young man in the country who disappeared, was assaulted or died on the night of a televised football game?”

Fletch groaned. “If Caroline would let me have the resources, perhaps I would. But I can’t even begin to do all this properly on my own.”

“You have my help, and McIntyre’s hindrance.”

“And I’m grateful for both, of course, though what we need is a full-blown, nationwide task force. At least he operates within certain parameters, particular timeframes, which narrows the search down - for his victims, at least.”

He
, Fletch had said, and
his
, and they both knew who he was referring to, though Fletcher never gave him a name or a nickname, or used one of the codes that the police and newspaper reporters in each state allotted for the sake of convenience and sensation. The most Albert did was call him Fletch’s pet serial killer.

The Oregon people were unimaginatively calling the offender they were after the Portland Strangler, even after Sam Doherty was discovered - though they weren’t convinced, as Fletch was, that there weren’t two killers on the loose, given the differences in MO. The Georgia reporters, faced with three brutal and bloody deaths, had called their offender the Mauler, which had led to a few cartoons and jokes about the Shopping Maller. Fletch found his sense of humor didn’t extend that far. The Georgia police, knowing more about how the victims were restrained and bound, called him the Killer de Sade when they weren’t in public. And the Colorado people, four years ago, had opted for the simple Boy Killer - except in certain circles, whose prejudice was alarmingly callous, where he was known as Just Another Queer Basher.

“I have been considering the results from the Doherty autopsy,” Albert was saying.

Fletch found he had sunk his head to his arms, which were folded on the desk, and couldn’t remember collapsing like that. He was exhausted. “And?”

“The radius in each arm was badly fractured, almost broken, about two-thirds along from the wrist. Due to the symmetry, I suspect that Doherty’s hands were close together, though there is no evidence that he was bound or handcuffed. Perhaps the offender held the hands together, placed the arms against something strong but fairly slim, like a metal pipe or even the edge of a heavy table, then exerted enough force to cause the injury. The result being a boy in pain who couldn’t use his arms effectively, and who was therefore easy to control.”

“But what did he want to control the boy
for
?” Fletch pondered. “There’s no sign of sexual activity and it doesn’t seem like our man to put clothes back onto a naked corpse. So all he ended up doing was suffocating the boy.”

“Perhaps he needed to shut Doherty up in a hurry, perhaps they were in danger of being found or heard.” Albert, who was still standing, put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I  believe the other three bodies had been gagged at some stage. None of the victims in the other states have been, and we were therefore looking for an isolated location, or one that was secure and soundproof. But perhaps he didn’t have that luxury here in Oregon.”

“You mean he couldn’t afford the noise this time, so perhaps we can assume that he lived in town or whatever.” The box of cards in Fletch’s head seemed about to topple into massive disorder. He clutched at his temples again, willing the headache and the chaos away. “I  can’t keep all this straight.”

“You have to, no excuses. Or I won’t listen to anymore of your theories.”

Fletch looked up at Albert. “A hard, hard man,” he commented. Which was exactly what he needed. “Okay with you if I pass that on to Owen Ross? About he couldn’t afford the noise, I  mean. I’ll tell him it was your idea.”

“Of course you may, but there’s no need to attribute it to me.”

“Credit where credit’s due.”

“There’s been no match on the fingerprint.”

Disappointment sank hopes Fletcher thought he’d already given up on. “No?”

“It didn’t match the mother’s prints, and there was no match at HQ.”

“So that means the man has never worked with the military or the government, and doesn’t have a criminal record.”

“If it is the offender’s print,” Albert reminded him.

“Yeah,” Fletcher agreed dispiritedly. “So, what are you doing next?”

“Assisting them in identifying the fourth body and finalizing various tests.”

“You’re a wonder and a marvel, and I have no idea what I’d do without you.”

Impassively returning Fletch’s gaze, Albert said, “How gratifying. There must be very few people who could fully appreciate having a pet forensics expert at their beck and call.”

Fletch, surprised at this, let a beat go past. Then he said, “I  definitely appreciate it,” with all the sincerity he could muster, for that was about the closest Albert had ever come to declaring a need for Fletcher’s friendship or approval. He watched as Albert turned and left, and then he considered the man’s statement again, less interested in the compliment than in the vulnerability it betrayed.

The fourth victim, a twenty-year-old man named Tony Shields, was identified by chance - a  friend, working in a temporary clerical job at the medical examiner’s offices, glimpsed photos of the body - rather than as a result of the forty-eight hours of solid work put in by the police and the FBI men.