The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (15 page)

“And I’m not just talking about the case.”

No further declarations, no explanations. Fletcher turned away to the side window, appeared to drop off into a doze. But Albert didn’t want to know what the man had meant, didn’t want any of it to have been said. He especially didn’t want to love this man. It was a pity that he seemed to have little choice in the matter.

There was a high wind tattering the clouds and soughing the highest branches of the pine trees, but it was quiet on the ground, a contrast that created a pregnant atmosphere. Ash was crouched down by the gravesite, completely still, as if lost in thought. Albert had seen him like this before - the man was paying far more attention than you would assume from his appearance, taking in details that others often missed. And then there were the less exact matters Fletcher was drawing on. A lot of law enforcement people liked to visit a crime site to get a feel for it but Ash seemed to take that one step further, somehow gathering up the offender’s feel for the place instead. Albert wasn’t sure that he believed in this ability but he had seen too many of Fletcher’s predictions proven true to be able to dismiss it entirely. And he would be the first to assert that humanity usually wasted the bulk of its potential.

Rather than continue to stare at Ash, Albert gazed around the site. It seemed to have been chosen at random, with short term convenience rather than long term safety in mind, being only a few yards from a dirt track and within hailing distance of a lumberyard. The trees hid it to some extent: even though they were widely spaced and the branches began at least six feet up the trunks, the undulating ground limited the possible range of vision. There were few other plants; just bare dirt and years of dead pine needles.

The cop who was escorting them at last broke the silence. “This one wasn’t planned,” Alanna Roberts said. “Not like your lot in Colorado.”

Ash stirred and looked up at the woman. “He’s clever enough to try to throw us off like that,” he said.

“But these types stick to the same MO, get themselves fixated on a particular way of doing the job. That’s the whole point.”

“Young white male, tortured, slowly killed, sexually assaulted, anal penetration. Body left naked, no jewelry or clothes. Buried facedown, in a forest.” Fletcher listed these facts as if they were a litany he had repeated a hundred times. “You tell me, Alanna.”

“Your lot were killed differently, which is a very significant point. These bled to death and yours were strangled. I won’t deny there are similarities but there’re too many differences.”

“The differences are more superficial than the similarities.”

“You can’t call the cause of death superficial. And it’s been a long while,” Roberts said, “maybe two years between your case and this one. What’s your man been doing in the meantime?”

“I don’t know. But two years before the Colorado case, there were four murders in Wyoming, still unsolved, that also bear similarities.”

“You’re seriously suggesting a cycle of two years? That’s too long. Now, every full moon, I’d believe, or every Christmas  …”

Ash didn’t smile.

“And the body count is going down, rather than escalating.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you to do everything you can to solve this, Alanna. But I’m afraid there are clues we’ll miss if we treat each case separately.”

“Or, if you’re wrong, it will all get confused, jumbled in together, and we’ll never sort it out.”

“Yes, I see that.” But he obviously didn’t like it or agree with it.

“What about the missing girlfriend? Stacey Dixon. You don’t have a parallel for that.”

“No, we don’t.” Ash looked up at Albert. His expression was relatively bland, but Albert could read the defeat.

“I’ll keep you appraised of any developments,” Roberts said.

“Thank you. And if you need FBI resources, call me.”

“Of course.”

“One favor - your list of suspects. Once it’s compiled, why don’t you let me compare it to mine?”

The woman grimaced. “Look, we’ve had police in from all over the country, angling for a piece of the pie, trying to get a solution to whatever’s outstanding on their own books. You’re as convincing as any of them, Fletch, but that’s a big ask. I  can’t let the world know names of men who are most likely innocent.”

“I know what I’m asking. I  could give you my list, perhaps, and you could see if there are any matches.”

“How many did you have?”

“Fifteen-hundred. And nothing to tie any of them with more than one of the victims, if that. You know how it is - some were included just because of the cars they drove.”

“Send me the ones who have moved out of Colorado, perhaps.”

“Thanks, Alanna.”

“I have to tell you, we’re going to do this one alone for now, keep it within Georgia. You understand, Fletch.”

Albert waited out the silence. True to his word, Ash had been entirely more reasonable than in Colorado, if quietly persistent. Albert wondered which was preferable: Ash trusting Albert enough to indulge himself, to be open and vulnerable; or Ash behaving like a responsible adult? It seemed strange to Albert to have fallen for a man who could exhibit so little restraint. And yet wasn’t it a sign of Ash’s friendship that he wouldn’t bother controlling his impulses in Albert’s company?

Frowning, Albert looked around, saw Roberts walking back to her car. He hated this: how his thoughts rambled, how consideration of Fletcher Ash could distract him at the most inopportune moments. A complete waste of energy. But he realized there was no way to undo the damage. He could only hope to minimize its effects, give it the necessary time to wear off.

Ash was circling the area, wandering, casting his glance over everything in the vicinity.

“Still convinced?” Albert asked.

“Even more so. Though I can’t justify it enough to satisfy anyone but you.” Then he stopped and asked, “Unless Alanna’s talked you out of believing in me? It’s so frustrating: I  agree with every word she says, I’d think exactly the same thing if I were in her shoes, but she’s wrong.”

Albert shrugged this off. “We’ll monitor their progress.”

“Good. Thanks.” He walked closer, casting one last glance around the area. Then he focused on Albert. “Come on, then, this is the fun bit. Alanna’s taking us to the morgue.”

“Are you attempting to worry me, Ash?”

The younger man just grinned.

“Mitchell Brown,” Roberts said as the morgue attendant pulled one of the drawers out. “I  knew this boy. Mitch would have gone down fighting.”

“He might have injured the offender in a struggle?” Ash asked.

“Hell, yeah. He gave me a black eye once.” Then she sighed and added, “I  don’t know. The bastard must have tied him up fairly quickly, or cuffed him. But I bet Mitch left his mark.”

“When did you win the black eye?”

“Mitch had been drinking, under age. He was quite special, you know the sort - they’re full of possibilities, but could go either way. You have to watch them through the teenage years, minimize the trouble they cause, but you step on them too hard and you send them off in the wrong direction.”

“I know the type,” Ash said.

“I think Mitch was beginning to write, poetry and what-have-you. Pity we’ll never know what he might have achieved.”

Albert said, “From the reports, the other victim is beaten just as badly. You’re not suggesting Brown sustained more injuries because it’s likely he fought back?”

Roberts shook her head, expression troubled. “On balance, no. That was the offender’s MO.”

Shutting them out, Albert concentrated on a visual examination of the corpse. There was nothing he could see under these conditions that hadn’t been in the report. And, given the obvious extent of the injuries and the advanced state of decay, he could understand the difficulties the medical examiner had in handling the internal organs. He would have far preferred to have dealt with this one himself.

“No traces of the offender except his semen,” Albert said.

“Nothing,” Roberts confirmed.

“There has to be something.”

Fletcher said, “That’s what we need, of course. Something to match him up with ours.”

“They were careful, sifted the soil around the body. But there wasn’t anything to find. And you would have read that the offender’s a non-secretor.”

“So was ours,” Ash said. “Which limits the search to twenty or thirty percent of the population.”

“That’s not proof the cases are connected, Fletch,” said Roberts. “And we need a suspect first, before we can try to eliminate him on those grounds.”

“Agreed. But doesn’t it strike you as odd, in a case that otherwise seems disorganized, superficially at least, that the offender took such great care not to leave trace evidence?”

“A combination of luck and the time that’s passed could have the same result.”

Albert said, “Show me the other body.”

While the attendant pushed Mitchell Brown back into cold storage, Ash muttered, “Offender. There has to be a better description.” He was staring sightlessly at the rows and rows of steel drawers. “This doesn’t
offend
me - it outrages me, horrifies me.”

Roberts was nodding, saying, “I  know.” She shared a sympathetic smile with him.

Turning to the second body, Albert rolled his eyes in exasperation. But he couldn’t prevent a stab of jealousy at the easy understanding between Fletcher and this woman. He hated being reduced to begrudging Ash a new friend.

Outside, Ash seemed revitalized by the crisp, pale sunlight. “We drew a blank,” he said, though he had apparently accepted that.

“No, we didn’t,” Albert disagreed.

“I suppose time will catch up with this man, even if we don’t. But what does he get away with meanwhile?”

“If you’re right, we have sixteen or seventeen months.”

“And if I’m wrong? I might have missed some cases for the intervening years.”

“You’ve done what you could.”

“Not quite.” And Fletcher grinned at him. “Sorry, but I’m coming to Washington with you.”

CHAPTER NINE

WASHINGTON DC

APRIL 1983

Perhaps he shouldn’t have pushed his luck and invited himself to Albert’s for dinner. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, fair: they were both tired after too little sleep and too much tragedy; and they were both used to living alone. Albert had withdrawn, even further than required by his usual policy of non-involvement, and no doubt that was because he’d had enough of Fletcher’s company for now. Usually they talked when they were together over a meal like this: discussions and disagreements about cases and the Bureau, about Fletcher specifically and people in general. Fletcher enjoyed being challenged by and learning from this man’s conversation.

But even Albert’s silence was preferable to Fletcher’s own thoughts tonight. Albert’s undemanding company and his cooking always made Fletch feel at home because they echoed his memories of Harley. The echoes were indirect, perhaps, for where Albert was precise, Harley was slapdash, but they both knew how to make the best of food.

Fletcher took another long swallow of the white wine he’d bought on the way here. It was going down all too easily, and of course Albert didn’t drink alcohol, so Fletch had the whole bottle to himself.

It helped take his mind off the case, at any rate. Instead, he considered Albert. Because Fletch wanted to put the guilt behind him - not forget it, but get beyond it - the guilt at the results of his failure. More immediately, he wished the images of Mitch, with his dark gold curls, and young Philip would quit haunting him. He sighed. Alanna was looking for someone who liked his young men strong and blond but Fletch knew his offender had broader tastes than that.

Albert sat across from him, distracted and yet purposeful. Albert never did anything, wore any expression, that wasn’t wholly focused and deliberate. There was a grace to him because of it, that might otherwise never have developed because the man was normally devoid of self-consciousness. Even now, with his thoughts miles away, Albert looked intent.

It seemed the only thing in the world that Albert found disconcerting was his partiality for Fletcher. Of course, Fletch couldn’t deny he was extremely flattered by such an unanticipated turn of events but he was sorry Albert was so perturbed by it. In fact, the man seemed to be unhappier and more ill-at-ease each time Fletch saw him. And still there was nothing Fletcher could, in all conscience, do for him.