The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (56 page)

Another shrug. “I don’t remember the kid.”

“Maybe Philip Rohan was middle-aged. Why call him a kid?”

Garrett stared at Fletcher, unflinching. “You said at the start of this that you’re investigating the deaths of several young men. Why else would you mention this Rohan guy?”

“What happened to Stacey Dixon? Why was she shot?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know who Stacey Dixon is.” And, after another thirty minutes of tape was devoted to questions relating to Garrett’s time in Georgia, Garrett asked, “How much longer is this likely to take, Special Agent?”

“I’d like to talk to you about Colorado as well, but of course you’re free to go at any time.”

Garrett considered him for a long moment, tired but shrewd. “No,” he said. “Let’s get this over with. Maybe then you’ll be satisfied. Otherwise you’ll be hounding me, won’t you?”

Ignoring this, Fletcher said, “Colorado. You drove a black four-wheel-drive vehicle, top of the line, very expensive.”

“Yes. Is
that
a crime?”

“Did you use it to pick up boys?”

The expressions passing over Garrett’s face encompassed amusement, frustration, vexation. “Believe it or not, Special Agent, there are young men - consenting adults - who are prepared to have sex with me. Ready, willing and able, I  assure you. I  don’t have to cruise the streets for the kind of boys who’ll be impressed by a shiny new car.”

“You might not have to,” Fletcher conceded. “But have you done so?”

There was a long silence. At last Garrett said, “Perhaps. Once or twice. In the past.”

“Did you pick up Andrew Harmer on the street, in your four-wheel-drive?”

“I don’t recall the name.”

“Drew Harmer was a college student in Denver.”

Garrett shook his head, slowly, apparently searching his memory. “I  don’t recall.”

“He told a friend that a man of your description, in the type of car you drove, propositioned him in the street.”

“It’s remotely possible,” Garrett said, shrugging. It seemed he couldn’t be less interested. “But I doubt it was me.”

“Later that evening, Drew planned to meet with you. He was never seen again.”

“I certainly had nothing to do with him disappearing,” Garrett said.

“Drew’s friend is prepared to testify in court.” It was more an overstatement than a lie. Fletcher said it smoothly, relieved when Halligan didn’t contradict him, or react in surprise. Fletch added, with slightly more truth, “The description Drew gave him is uncannily accurate.”

Garrett retorted, “Hearsay is inadmissible. You’re bluffing.”

“It’s not inadmissible in these circumstances. Don’t believe everything you see on TV. You’re the one who’s bluffing.”

A brief silence, then Garrett said, “You have the wrong man, Special Agent.”

“I don’t think so,” Fletcher said firmly. He leaned forward a little for the first time, staring hard at Garrett and letting the man see how driven this FBI agent was. “I have you in all four states at the right times. I have links between you and at least one of the victims in three of those states. What are the odds against that, if you’re not the killer? So remote that it’s statistically impossible.”

“Whatever the hell the odds are, it’s still a possibility. Obviously. Because I am not the man you want, Special Agent.”

“How did it feel, Mr Garrett?” Fletcher asked in the same tone of voice. “This was Drew’s first date. There he was, infatuated, full of hope, all yours. How did it feel to see the fear in his eyes when he realized what you are?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garrett said flatly.

“How did it feel to have him helpless, begging for your mercy? This pitiful boy-child crying and sobbing, screaming and bleeding.”

The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched - but Fletcher had seen those cold eyes flare. Garrett said flatly, “Sounds like you know better than I do, Special Agent.”

“How did it feel to hit him, to hurt him?”

“Is this really necessary?”

Fletcher didn’t miss a beat. “How did it feel to watch him die? Did you look into Drew’s eyes as you strangled him? Or were you raping him while you killed him?”

“Enough!” At last Garrett stood. “I  don’t have to listen to this. Halligan?”

The lieutenant said, “That’s enough, Special Agent.”

Having already fallen silent, Fletcher was staring at Garrett, noting the fixed expression of distaste. It were almost as if the man was in shock, his breathing hard but shallow, his face pale and that distaste plastered over the top. There had been a reaction to the horror Fletch had thrown at him, a truer reaction than this discomfort: Garrett had understood all that Fletcher described. This was the serial killer. If Fletcher had been in any doubt, he had none now.

“Mr Garrett,” Fletcher said, also standing, “perhaps you’d wait here for a moment. I  need to talk to Lieutenant Halligan.”

The man briefly lifted his hands in exasperation, then sat down again. “Sure. One moment, for the sake of clearing this up. Then I’m leaving.”

Fletcher ushered Halligan out into the main office, bent his head close and whispered urgently, “That’s him, Lieutenant. I  want you to hold him in custody while I go talk to Judge Beaufort.”

Halligan also whispered, presumably for the sake of privacy. “He’s not your killer, Ash.”

“He damn well is. Weren’t you watching him? Didn’t you see how he reacted? He knew exactly what I was talking about.”

Halligan looked even more annoyed than Garrett, though he didn’t raise his voice. “I  was looking, all right. I saw an innocent man trying to clear his name and being damned patient about it. Of course he was shocked at what you said, you went way too far, Special Agent. If he wants to complain about how you conducted that interview - and it was a preliminary interview, remember, not an interrogation - then I’ll support him.”

Fletcher gazed at the man, hard and bitter. “Are you telling me you won’t support me in this investigation, even though I have the jurisdiction and the authority?”

“I wouldn’t tell you that, Special Agent.”

“Only because you know it would be your career if you did.”

Halligan had the sense to look ill at ease, but he asked, “Why the hell did you go that far? ‘Were you raping him while you killed him?’ How would you feel if someone threw that at you, Ash?”

“Like dirt, whether it was true or not. But he understood me, Halligan. He understood me because that’s exactly what he did.”

“Now you’re throwing it at me.”

“How else can I get you to take this seriously?”

“The way I see it,” the lieutenant said, face still two inches from Fletcher’s, “you have no grounds to hold this man. If he wants to walk, he’s free to walk, and I’m not about to stop him.”

“I’m going to talk to the judge.”

“John Garrett won’t be here when you get back, Ash.”

Fletcher looked at the man. “I  know.” Albert had joined them, but Fletcher ignored him. Turning his back on Halligan, and not even glancing at the interview room where Garrett waited, Fletch headed out of the police station.

Judge Beaufort demanded, “What have you brought me, Agent Ash? And where is the prosecuting attorney?”

“I saw no reason to bother Ms Atwell, Your Honor, because I’ve brought you nothing. I’m afraid the interview was inconclusive.” Fletcher wondered if he sounded as weary and hopeless as he felt. The courtroom was large and empty and echoing. He tilted his head to look up at the judge. “I’m here to ask you for your help.”

“What can you expect me to do?”

“The suspect is aware of who I am now, Your Honor, he didn’t know anyone was onto him before this afternoon. But I couldn’t hold him at the station, he gave me nothing.”
The ugly truth, Fletcher
, he admonished himself. “I  failed. I  failed, and he’s free right now and no doubt on his way home. If there’s any evidence there, it will be gone by tomorrow. At least, I’m sure Dr Sterne would be able to find things, if there’s been any crime committed at the house, but he’ll dump any material relating to the previous crimes  -”

“Such as? What exactly would you expect to find, Special Agent?”

“As Ms Atwell detailed yesterday, anything to do with the victims. Serial killers often keep trophies, items they’ve taken from the victims, clothing or jewelry or driver’s licenses. None of them were mutilated in ways to suggest he keeps body parts. But he might have press clippings about the cases. Even photographs, or audio or video tapes of the actual murders.”

“I cannot give you your warrant, Agent Ash. Mr  Garrett is a respected man in our community  -”

Fletcher turned an imploring and frustrated stare on the judge, unable to stop himself. “Your Honor,
that’s
how he gets away with this time and time again. He works hard to be the kind of man who’s above suspicion  -”

“No, you listen to me, Special Agent. No one is above suspicion in this courtroom. No one. Don’t you imply that I would treat Mr Garrett any differently than I would a homeless man or a senator.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor, I didn’t mean to imply that.”

The mountain appeared somewhat appeased. “Now, what I was going to say was that Mr Garrett has ties to New Orleans, he has a business to run. He’s unlikely to move on without any warning.”

“But he has before. He completely disappeared from Oregon, and not many people could do that so thoroughly.”

“He had time to plan in that instance. I  don’t consider him a high flight risk.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Fletcher knew his tone conveyed his disagreement.

“The rules of evidence are there for a reason, Special Agent.
Innocent until proven guilty
- they’re strong words, it’s a strong principle. And sometimes we fallible human beings need strong rules to follow in order to live up to our principles.” A  pause, and then in a more reasonable voice, “Look at it from this perspective, Mr Ash. You could be the only one who’s seen the truth in this case. If so, I  admire you and I pity you. On the other hand, you could be fixated, obsessed with nothing more than a phantom. I  have to protect Mr Garrett from that fixation.
You
hold the power in this, Special Agent, even if you feel powerless right now. You’re the one with the badge and the gun.”

Fletcher sighed. “Look at it from my perspective, Mr Beaufort. The courts seem to be more about law than justice, more about procedure than results.”

“Maybe you’re right. The law certainly isn’t perfect. But human beings have high ideals and we try to apply them. You can’t ask for more than that.”

“Can’t I?”

Judge Beaufort considered Fletcher, gazing down at him from his bench. “When this is over, you and I will share a bottle or two of burgundy, and discuss justice and law, ideals and realities. These are fascinating areas to debate. But not now, Special Agent; I  have work to do, and I believe you do, too.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you for your time and your patience.”

The man nodded, and left through the door behind the dais, moving slowly and steadily and inevitably. Fletcher watched him go, then headed out of the court. If Fletcher did have work to do right now, he had no idea what the hell it was.

Fletcher had been planning to walk over to the FBI offices but he’d been distracted almost immediately. There was a park occupying the block between the federal building and the courthouse, and the green of it beckoned.

So now Fletcher was lying on his back on the grass, his jacket spread under his head and shoulders, heedless of what this might do to his suit, staring up through the branches of spreading oaks. The leaves were so abundant that they provided total shade, a welcome darkness and an illusion of coolness - at least when compared to the direct bleaching sunlight a few yards away.

“It’s me, Fletch,” someone said above him.

Tilting his head back, Fletcher found McIntyre standing over him. “Hello, Mac.”

“Albert sent me to find you.” The man was sitting down on a park bench a few feet away. Obviously nothing urgent.

“Did he?” Fletch murmured.

Mac asked, “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better.” The silence stretched, then Fletcher complained, dull and weary, “This damned heat. It’s even worse than Washington.”