by Julie Bozza
“An acquaintance, perhaps,” Fletcher said. “Someone he’d met, even felt comfortable with.”
“I have no idea how we can help you. We don’t know any perverts like that.”
“You often don’t know with these people,” Caroline said softly. “You often can’t see it until you have the benefit of hindsight.”
“His eyes on Drew,” the mother was saying distractedly, “my poor boy suffering under the eyes of this inhuman monster. The shame he must have felt.”
Caroline said, “It’s over now. No more pain, and Drew had nothing to be ashamed of. We need to talk to you, to his friends, try to work out who did this. Try to stop him before he does it again. Can we ask you some questions, Mrs Harmer? Mr Harmer?”
“But we went through everything with the cops when Drew disappeared.”
“I know, and I’ve read the paperwork. But maybe we can jog a memory that might not have seemed relevant at the time.”
The father said with a frail calm, “The cops didn’t care back then - you know how many people go missing each year? It’s a wonder there’s anyone in the State who’s not missing from somewhere.”
The questions took almost an hour. Had Drew been planning on meeting up with a man for the evening? Going away for the weekend? Going on a trip, or camping, or hiking? Had he mentioned any new friends or acquaintances? Someone he was afraid of, didn’t trust, felt uneasy with? A man who might have made sexual advances? Who’d made offers of work or money? Who owned a four-wheel-drive vehicle? An outdoors man? Someone who was built large and strong? But neither of Drew’s parents could think of anything new.
“We saw a great deal of him, he was always bringing his laundry, expecting to be fed,” Mr Harmer said. “He’d catch the bus down, then want to be driven back to town. But he didn’t talk much about his friends. There was a boy he roomed with at college, Scott. You should give him the third degree. They were close as thieves.”
Albert spoke up. “What happened to his belongings?”
“It’s all here. We’d hoped - of course, we wanted him to walk in that door again one day.”
Caroline asked, “Would you mind if Agent Ash and Mr Sterne had a look? There may be something useful.”
Drew’s remaining possessions were in boxes at the back of the garage. Fletch thanked Mr Harmer, who lingered, perhaps mulling over the hopes that had now been thwarted. Eventually, Harmer said, “It might be six months ago for you, and for Drew. But it was yesterday for us.”
“And it will take time,” Fletch agreed. The FBI men waited in silence. When Drew’s father finally left, Fletch opened the nearest carton.
There wasn’t much to show for a life. As he and Albert worked through the record albums and the school books, Ash wondered if his own possessions would betray as little to an observer. Surely not. Drew’s records were a range of Top 40 disposable pop, the subjects he studied a basic mix of math and accounting and economics, the notebooks and lecture pads carefully devoid of doodles, the three magazines all cars and hot rods, the few pieces of fiction dog-eared student issues of Austen, Melville and Shakespeare.
“Do you get the feeling,” Fletch asked Albert, “this is all a little too bland? Very safe.”
“Not everyone has such wide-ranging interests as you,” Albert said sarcastically, flipping through another lecture pad. “Did you expect this place,” and he tipped his chin towards the house, “to produce anything more flamboyant?”
“Maybe young Drew hadn’t found himself yet.”
“If you must use clichés. It’s more likely he was simply as bland as these things indicate - after all, he was studying to become an accountant.”
“I have an accounting degree.” Fletcher faced the sardonic lift of an eyebrow, and smiled. “It used to be a requirement to become a special agent.”
“I suppose you had to fill in the time until you turned twenty-three somehow.”
“Yes. I went on to an arts degree in English, American and Russian literature.”
“Spare me the banal details of your life, Ash.” He turned away to the next box. “Pity the child was too boring to keep a journal or diary. Learned all about double entry bookkeeping today, he’d write. Drank my first cup of tea this evening - what would mother think?”
“Now who’s descending into clichés and stereotypes? If you must insult a dead boy, you might as well say something original or witty.”
Albert stared at him, furious. Fletch returned the gaze easily. But apparently it was not worth Albert’s time and trouble to brawl with him - the forensics man turned away, adjusting the cloak of his dignity, and began working through the last carton.
For a few minutes, while Albert Sterne was absorbed in the task, Fletcher watched him. The man and his manner could be really ugly. And of course there was nothing to be done about the features of his face, which were each too bold, and didn’t quite belong together, as if Albert were a botched Photo-FIT picture. The habitual expression of passionate indifference didn’t suit him - but surprise or provoke him, and the dark brown eyes kindled into a beautiful intensity. The man had sensibilities, certainly, though they were heavily guarded from all, including himself.
As for the things more directly under Albert’s control, they were a strange mixture of style and quality and severity. His hair was a very practical crew cut, which wasn’t attractive, but Fletch couldn’t imagine him wearing a longer style. His suits were understated and perfectly fitted and, Fletch suspected, not bought off the rack; while they were in strict accordance with Hoover’s old dictates, they were of good material and pleasing color. The shirts and shoes were functional, the ties were subtle; though they were fine percale, leather and silk respectively. Albert appeared to appreciate comfort, but Fletch could read little vanity in him.
“I always suspected you couldn’t perform more than one task at a time, Ash. Perhaps you should sit down while you have a little think. It might be safer.”
Fletcher smiled. “Do you want to take any of Drew’s things?”
“There’s no point. But you can tell them not to dispose of them yet.”
“Okay, that’s sensible.”
Albert looked a tad offended. “I’m so glad it occurred to you that I do make sense occasionally.”
“I suppose we should go in.” But Fletch didn’t move, though he knew Caroline would be expecting him.
“All this tawdry grief makes you feel fragile, does it?”
“I … empathize too much. My mother died. I suppose that every time I witness someone else’s grief, I feel my own.”
“How self-indulgent. It’s a wonder you can even function.”
Fletcher stared at him. “I hope you’re speaking from personal experience.”
“My parents were murdered when I was five. I was the one who found them.”
“And if you can survive it -”
“Anyone can. Yes.”
“You’re a hard man, Albert Sterne. Did you never let yourself grieve?”
For the briefest of moments, Albert flinched away from him, a potent flash of loss and rage in his eyes. But it was over so quickly, the mask was back so perfectly in place, that Fletcher wondered if he hadn’t imagined the reaction, the sudden excess of a child’s need.
Albert said, “You’re wasting time with this trivial chatter.”
Caroline had joined them, looking weary. “They wanted me to go over it again. It’s hard to know where to draw the line, how to tell them about Drew without burdening them with the ghastly details.”
“You poor thing. How are they doing?”
“How do you think? But his mother said that if she’s going to have nightmares, they may as well be about what really happened. I think she thought she was capable of imagining something worse.”
Albert snorted. “Imagination is the last thing these people suffer from.”
Thornton looked at him, eyes narrow, but she addressed Ash. “Doesn’t it seem awful to you that we build our careers on all this
death?”
“We’re making a career of catching criminals, Caroline.” He looked away from his two companions. This was something he had to regularly remind himself of, and something guaranteed to provoke Albert’s impatience.
“I know - really, I know intellectually that it’s the offender alone who’s responsible for the deaths. Emotionally is another matter.”
“Are we trapped in a soap opera,” Albert Sterne asked, “or can we get on with the job without the histrionics?”
“Have you finished out here?” Caroline asked Fletch.
“Yes, for now.”
“Then let’s say our farewells. I’ve invited the two of us along to the funeral - I’m sure Mr Sterne will be far too busy to attend.”
“If I can trust you to keep an eye on who else is attending, I won’t need to go.”
“You can trust us,” Fletch said, before Thornton could retort. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“You drew the short straw again,” Albert observed as Fletcher walked up to him in the foyer of the Bureau offices.
“No, I simply volunteered to take you with me to visit Drew’s roommate. Caroline was so glad to be rid of us both, she said we could use her car.”
“What overwhelming generosity,” Albert muttered.
Once he had pulled out of the parking lot, Fletch said, “Meanwhile, Caroline is phoning HQ to see how long we can borrow you for.”
“You didn’t see fit to ask me first?”
“I figured this is the sort of case you joined the Bureau to solve, and you’re loving every minute of it.”
“Let’s get two rules straight, Idaho Joe: you don’t make asinine assumptions about me; and you minimize your morbid interest in my life and my career.”
“You’re an interesting person, Albert. Surely you’d be the last person to disagree with me on that score.”
“Your lack of control is alarming.”
“Yeah,” Fletch agreed. “But, persistent as I am, a person can only take so much rejection. The woman I was seeing dumped me in absentia. Said she had her own life to lead, which is fair enough -”
Albert asked, “Am I supposed to care?”
“She was so pretty, had a beautiful smile. I loved making her smile.”
“You think all women are pretty,” Albert informed him. “You lack discrimination.”
Fletcher grinned. “Yeah, I do, don’t I? Guess I just adore women.” Then he heaved a sigh. “It would be nice if they adored me back, mind you.” He received no reply. “Rejection,” Fletch repeated, looking across at his companion. “You’re not much better, you know. I figure I’m going to stop asking you out to dinner one day.”
“I can but live in hope.”
“I’m harmless, you know. My only motive is friendship.” Fletch laughed. “The anticipation of a friendship, to be more precise.”
Albert cast him a dry glance. “I hardly suspected anything else.”
“Well, you’re not going to frighten me away like you do everyone else.”
“Two rules only. Do I have to repeat myself?”
Fletch laughed again. “All right. A truce is declared.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” the man bit back.
“Are you Scott? Drew Harmer’s friend?”
The boy looked from Fletch to Albert and back again. He was abruptly scared, as if he guessed at the news they brought. “Yes.”
“I’m Special Agent Fletcher Ash, this is Mr Albert Sterne, from the FBI. Can we come in? We need to talk.”
“You’ve found him, haven’t you? Drew. Is he -?”
“Let us come in,” Fletch said gently.
The boy suddenly sobbed, backed away, and the men followed him into the room he’d once shared with Drew. Albert shut the door, stayed there while Fletch went to sit by Scott on one of the beds.
“I thought it wasn’t that, all this time I was hoping Drew was happy, he found what he wanted.”
“What did he want?” Ash asked.
The storm had already passed, though Scott still shook in reaction. He was silent for a while, catching his breath, then he stood up and walked to stare out of the tiny window. “The usual things, I suppose,” he said distantly.
Fletcher remained seated, studied the boy’s profile. He prompted, “Tell me.”
“You see, I didn’t think he was dead.”
“You’ve been keeping something secret for him, haven’t you?”
Scott whispered, “Yes.” He might have cried again, but perhaps decided to save it for later. “Drew went to meet a man that night. I was hoping he’d moved in with him. He didn’t come to get his records and things, his family did, but I thought this man might have given him -”
“Why didn’t you tell the police that at the time?” Albert snapped.
“It was Drew’s business!” Scott protested. “His family were so horribly straight, he made me promise not to tell them ever. He thought they’d fuck it all up, drag him back home. I mean, he thought this was it, this was what he’d wanted - Did he, I mean was he -?”
“He was tortured, raped and murdered,” Fletcher said. “Maybe that night, and maybe by this man you say he went to meet.”
“Oh hell,” the boy moaned.
“It wasn’t just Andrew Harmer’s business, you little moron,” Albert said, “it was Brett Jones’ business, too. He died, and another boy we don’t have a name for yet, who’s lying in the morgue waiting to be claimed. And if you’d told anyone at the time, the man might have been stopped before he reached them.”
“Oh fuckin’ hell …” The sobs began again.
Fletcher moved to stand close to the boy. “Just tell us what happened,” he said quietly.
“Drew met this man that afternoon. Drew was gay, you see. And this was his big chance, he’d never been with anyone before. He was so … high.”
“Where did they meet?”
“I don’t know. On a street somewhere. Drew was walking, and this guy drives up, and they talked.”
“What sort of car did he have?”
“I don’t know, honestly, I don’t know. Black, it was - but Drew really didn’t say any of that. He thought the guy was rich, thought he’d set Drew up sweet.”
“If Drew thought the man was rich, could that be because of the car? Drew knew about cars, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did. Maybe that was why, or maybe the clothes he was wearing.”
“All right.” Fletcher cast a glance at Albert. “Now, what did the man look like? Drew must have told you whether he was handsome.”
“Just that - big, he said, and handsome. Big, and good for …” The boy went to rummage through the drawers for a handkerchief.
“Good for what?” Fletch asked after a moment.
“For cuddling.” Scott groaned. “Hell, this is terrible.”
“Yes, it is. What were they going to do? Dinner, or a club, or a movie, or what?”
“They were just going back to his place. Watch the baseball or something, and - you know.”
“What else did Drew say?”
“I don’t know anything more. Except the man knew what he was doing. Suave. Drew was all a-flutter, he wasn’t in any state to tell me much.”
Albert commented sourly, “Some first date.”
Scott pleaded, “I thought all this time Drew was happy.”
“Did you really?” Albert asked.
The boy shuddered, and Fletch dropped an arm around his shoulders. “All right, that will do for now. Scott, I want you to come down to the Bureau offices tomorrow morning, in the Federal Building - do you know it? We’ll get this down on paper. And think hard in the meantime, try to remember if Drew said anything else, a comment or a joke or any little detail.”
“Okay,” the boy said.
“Now, is there anything of Drew’s that you kept? Anything he didn’t want his parents knowing about?”
Scott went to the wardrobe, dug into a pile of clothes. “We had a couple of books - you kno
w, gay books. Are you going to tell his parents?”
“We’ll probably have to.”
“Here. Maurice was his favorite.” The boy cast a sad lingering glance over the novels. “They’ll hate it, his folks - him being gay, I mean. Serves them right. Anyway,” he continued, “there wasn’t anything else. With Drew, it was all in here.” And he indicated his chest, his heart, with a clenched fist.
