The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (66 page)

“You’re not going to show me,” Ash said easily, as if he felt quite safe. If Ash had drawn away, or been afraid, Garrett knew the impulse to go for the man would have been too strong to resist. Unaware of how close he was to danger, Ash continued, “I  told you, this is the end of the line.”

Garrett stared at him for a moment. Perhaps he could have it both ways, have everything, of course he could - they could talk, Ash would be amazed, would be truly afraid - and when the words stopped flowing, then maybe a demonstration. Garrett nodded, and said, “All right. I’ll tell you, tell it all. Because you’ll understand, won’t you?” And then he saw the difference between them, should have realized from the first. “You don’t
like
that you understand. You hate that about yourself.”

“Yes.”

“You hate that you’re capable of murder, that you were tempted to join me with the boy tonight.”

Ash just stared at him, not bothering to voice any denials.

“It’s been a long four years, you said. And you’re never going to leave it behind, are you? This will be with you all your life, what I’ve done and what you’ve understood. But you still want to know.” Garrett nodded again. “I’ll tell you all of it. But when I’m finished talking, then one of us dies.”

Ash still seemed unafraid of the threat, damn the man to hell. He said, “Mr Garrett, when you’re finished telling me, then I’m going to arrest you.”

“No, you won’t,” Garrett said firmly. He’d decided years ago he’d never go through jail, and psychiatric evaluations, and a trial, and the newspapers telling lies uncomprehending, and still more jail until blind society finally decided to execute him. John Garrett deserved better than that. He said to Ash, “If I die, then you tell the world all I achieved. You carry on with the burden of knowing everything that I did. Will that ruin your life, Ash?” There was no reply. Garrett continued, “If you’re the one who dies, well, we’ve had a fascinating conversation. That’s the deal.”

“You call murder an achievement, Mr Garrett?”

“You know it is, Ash. Fifteen deaths - more than fifteen, if you want to hear about it - and I’m still free.” A pause, when Ash should have jumped at the chance. “Come on,” Garrett said. “You found me, so I know you’re not stupid. This is the best offer you’ll ever get.”

Ash said, “If we’re going to do this, I need to tape it.”

Garrett smiled. “You think you’re gonna survive tonight?”

“Oh yes,” Ash said easily. “We both are. And this will be invaluable evidence.”

A long moment, and then Garrett agreed with a shrug. What could it matter, whichever way this ended? If Garrett was the one to survive, these tapes could join his collection of memorabilia, in amongst the chains and earrings of the dead boys. He could add to them later, maybe even tape Ash’s death as well, and leave the lot to someone in his will. Someone appropriate like the Director of the FBI.

If Ash lived, then he would have all the detail, in Garrett’s own words, to publicize. And to haunt him at night.

Garrett stood and went to fetch the cassette player from on top of the fridge.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

NEW ORLEANS

SEPTEMBER 1985

Fletcher sat there at the rickety old kitchen table, across from John Garrett, with nothing to do but watch him. The man’s mood was almost contemplative now, a distinct contrast from the euphoria of half an hour ago, and different again from the dull confusion when Fletch had first appeared on his doorstep. Garrett had grabbed up a handful of music cassettes, saying with a laugh that he’d buy replacements the next day, and was now carefully fixing a piece of tape over the end of each so that they could be recorded over. He was engrossed in the simple task and in his own thoughts, and seemed not to notice the silence. He might have forgotten Fletcher’s presence.

Considering the man with as much objectivity as he could muster, Fletch decided his first impressions weren’t far wrong. He could still see how Drew Harmer might have found John Garrett attractive. Garrett was a couple of inches taller than Fletch, built on a more generous scale, and smoothly handsome with his grey hair and blue eyes. Right now, while Garrett was quiet, it didn’t take too large a leap of imagination to see how Drew had thought the man good for cuddling. And no doubt the boy had been taken in by the man’s friendly all-charm and no-nonsense attitude.

The silence stretched. Fletcher remained outwardly calm, although internally he was afraid and so tense it was as if someone was squeezing his gut in two mammoth fists. He was also in dire need of something to focus on other than his own thoughts and emotions. To his surprise, for it seemed the most inappropriate of situations, he was considering the nature of love.

He was in danger, Fletch knew that all too well, and he kept a very wary eye on Garrett. As far as he could see, though, Garrett had no weapons to hand - and Fletcher’s gun was a reassuring and worrying weight between his ribs and his arm - but Fletch didn’t even begin to trust the man. Fletch was in danger and, right now, he was free to reflect on all the causes and possible consequences of the situation.

The fact that Garrett was willing to talk, and on tape, meant that he was intending to kill Fletcher. Garrett surely didn’t want Fletch to be able to use this knowledge or these tapes to convict him. At least, that was the logical conclusion - but Garrett wasn’t behaving consistently or logically. He was acting on impulse, reckless in all he said and did. The friendly innocent act of his was coming apart at the seams and even though he’d now decided to tell the truth to Fletcher, Garrett had already spent the evening revealing far more of himself than he’d intended.

There was one definition of love Fletcher had heard, about a readiness to put the other before yourself. Well, Fletch was sadder for Albert’s sake than for his own right now. Fletch wouldn’t mind losing his life if it meant Garrett lost his as well.

Of course the best result, the one Fletcher grimly reminded himself he must work towards, was surviving and arresting Garrett, with ample evidence at hand of all the man’s crimes. And these tapes that Garrett was still fiddling with would provide that.

But if Fletcher died, it would hurt Albert. Fletch knew that the loss would hurt Albert so damned much. In fact, Fletcher’s death would hurt Albert even more than the death of his parents had. Their deaths had at least left the boy capable of love. Fletcher’s would destroy the one chance the man ever had. Fletcher considered this notion with a great deal of grief, and only the smallest sense of triumph.

Albert loved, even if he’d never admit it, but he’d never believed Fletch loved him.
Why not?
Fletch silently cried out. He preferred his own definition of love, vague though it was. Something about being true to yourself, and offering yourself openly and honestly to the other. Letting them challenge who you really are, and challenging in turn.
Didn’t I do that, Albert? Did I fail, or did you fail to see?
Fletcher had played a part in so many other doomed relationships, he now wondered why he’d expected this one to work.

The important point was that Albert would continue, Albert would forever endure. The hurt would not be fatal. But if John Garrett remained free, the hurt he inflicted would be deadly, and there would be more victims - many more victims, and so much more hurt than that relating to the broken heart of a solitary forensics expert.

Just in case, Fletcher had tried to say goodbye. Tried to write something, though he’d soon given up. He’d read the words he committed to paper with Albert’s critical eye, and dismissed them as melodramatic. Anyway, why would Albert believe a posthumous written declaration of love, when he’d refused to be swayed by Fletcher’s verbal protestations?

His own life and Albert’s miserable repression were worth ending Garrett’s freedom. Albert would probably have agreed, if Fletch had asked.

Fletcher distracted himself with the observation that Albert would deplore Garrett’s taste in music, which appeared to be mostly country and western, with some Elvis thrown in for good measure. From the number of cassettes, Garrett planned a long and detailed confession. What might happen after that was, at this stage, anyone’s guess - though Fletcher was absolutely determined that, one way or the other, this was the end of the line for John Garrett.

Finished with his task at last, Garrett was turning a cassette over and over in his hands, quite distracted by it. Eventually he looked up and said, “One of the guys left this, back in Oregon. Metallica isn’t my thing. Don’t know why I kept it.”

“What happened to him?”

After a moment, Garrett looked up at Fletch, an amused glint in his eye. “Don’t worry, Fletcher, I  let that one go. He was just a runaway. Fed him, gave him some money, told him to go home. I  guess he forgot his tape, though. He’d play the damned thing twenty-four hours a day because he didn’t have a cassette player of his own.”

Fletcher nodded, feeling unwilling gratitude for this small example of - surely it was self-preservation rather than compassion, to let the boy go, even though letting him listen to his music was the act of a friend.

“See,” Garrett said, “I can be a nice guy, too. What did you say? You’ve never met a civilized serial killer before.” He grinned.
Well, you have now.

Barely restraining himself from reacting with at least skepticism, wishing Albert were here to cut the guy down to size with some choice sarcasm, Fletcher said, “Let’s do this.” When Garrett nodded, Fletcher put one of the other cassettes in the player, and pressed the record button. “Tape one, side one. This is Fletcher Ash talking with John Garrett. It is eleven-forty on the night of September first, 1985.” A  slow breath, and then Fletcher began. “John, you said you’d tell me all about these matters I’m investigating. Would you confirm for the record that you’re doing this voluntarily?”

“Sure,” Garrett said, sounding amused at these niceties. “I’m not under any duress.”

“Thank you. Where would you like to start?”

“Where do you want me to start?”

Garrett still expected Fletcher to take the lead in this conversation, seemed surprised that Fletcher mostly refused to take the initiative. He hadn’t yet realized this confession had to be Garrett’s choice, Garrett’s words, without Fletcher prompting. After a moment, Fletcher said, “Tell me about the last time you killed someone.”

“Tony, back in Oregon, right?”

“You haven’t committed murder here in New Orleans?”

“Not yet,” Garrett said with a broad grin, looking directly at Fletch. But then Garrett’s expression degenerated into puzzlement. “Don’t think so. There was a guy, last year, I  thought about it.”

“What was his name?”

“Zac. Hooked on coffee. Street kid, lived in a place falling apart down in the French Quarter, probably squatting. I  picked him up for sex. Maybe I went back and killed him and his nosy friend.”

“Who was the friend?”

“Idiot of a girl. Self-righteous just because I got a bit rough with the guy.” Garrett shrugged. “It was no big deal. I  paid them to shut up. She took the money but she didn’t like it.”

“You thought of killing them to shut them up?”

“Thought about it,” Garrett repeated. “Don’t know if I did.”

“How does that make you feel, that you can’t remember?”

Silence for a while. Then Garrett said, “Tony was magnificent. Thrill’s in the hunt as well as the kill, you know. He was as straight as they come, knew I had my eye on him, but he trusted me enough to have a drink with me, to come home with me. Had to do some smooth talking for that one. Fought once he realized, almost got away, determined to be free, but not as determined as I was to have him. Would have beaten the life out of me. Sweet to take him lower than he ever thought possible. Be in control of someone who never lets anyone get the better of him.”

“Where did you meet him? Where did you take him for a drink?” And Fletcher worked on getting all the detail from Garrett, much of which could be verified. There might be witnesses at the bar Garrett mentioned, even after all this time. The very existence of the bar would add substance to Garrett’s story, with the pool tables he and Tony played at, and the decor he described. There had been mirrors on the wall, which provided the chance to watch not only Tony but a half-dozen reflections of him - and also to let Tony catch Garrett at it. Shared glances through the slightly unreal medium of the mirrors, Garrett of course getting turned on and Tony merely amused, too confident to feel the danger.

And then, of course, there was all the detail of what Garrett had done with the young man once they’d reached Garrett’s house. Fletcher listened as Garrett described what caused each of the injuries Albert had so meticulously listed in his report. Worse than his imaginings of it, to know the hot and brutal truth; somehow worse to know the truth, even in the few instances where his imaginings had been crazier, crueler. Fletch did not want to be here, did not want to be listening to this, did not want to be seeing this so damned vivid in his mind’s eye, breathing in the night’s heavy humidity.