The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  “Obviously you can’t accept it, or you wouldn’t wake up yelling so frequently.”

  “Why won’t you understand how ghoulish this feels? To know that some poor boy’s being tortured and murdered, and we’re waiting for someone to find his body?”

  Albert was silent.

  “Okay, fine - give me a hard time about it in the morning. But, right now, how about you just pretend you sympathize?”

  “I am definitely sorry for you,” Albert said dryly.

  “Not half as sorry for me as I am. You get impatient with the whole issue, Caroline’s more than half convinced I’m making it all up - whose shoulder am I supposed to cry on?” It had been even more difficult and frustrating when Caroline had begun to give him nothing but routine duties, which were unlikely to cause a problem if he made mistakes or wanted to fly off to Oregon with no notice, but that couldn’t serve to distract him from the days sliding past.

  “I don’t suppose you discuss this with your father.”

  “No,” Fletch said flatly. He was under oath to keep any Bureau case confidential. Though he suspected he’d happily break that oath if he didn’t feel Peter Ash would be as uncomfortable with Fletcher’s empathic understanding of this murderer as Albert was unsympathetic.

  “Perhaps you should see someone who’s qualified to deal with this.”

  “What?” Fletch was flabbergasted. He twisted around to see Albert’s face, which was closed tight. “You don’t believe in shrinks and things.”

  “I don’t need a therapist,” Albert amended. “But I am beginning to suspect you might.”

  “No way. Where do you get off suggesting I do something that you never would?”

  “You enjoy this unbalanced state of mind?”

  “I hate to break it to you but I’ve always relied on myself and a few select friends to maintain that balance. And you are my best and closest friend.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. A qualified practitioner would simply aim to help you cope with reality.”

  “If you want to spend the night trying to agree on a definition of reality,” Fletch snapped, “that’s fine by me.”

  “Now you’re being infantile as well. Perhaps I should have been clearer - the realities of your life and your situation.”

  Silence, though Fletch didn’t move out of Albert’s arms. He’d been unfair, he admitted to himself; Albert had Fletch’s best interests at heart, even if he had a rather abrupt bedside manner. Ash suddenly laughed, having realized something he should have thought of years ago. “You’re qualified, aren’t you?”

  A moment’s pause, as if Albert was surprised. “You’re not yet a suitable subject for forensic psychology.”

  “I mean, you’re a doctor. Though no one calls you Dr Sterne.”

  Albert shrugged. “I began working at the Bureau forensics lab while I was still studying.”

  “And you never made a fuss when you qualified and neither, of course, did they.”

  “It enabled me to earn promotion to the position I occupy now. I started as a lab assistant.”

  Ash almost laughed again: Albert would indeed be difficult to work for, with his high and exacting standards. What could be worse for some people than working for a boss who knew how their job should most perfectly be done because he’d done it himself? Under the circumstances, they couldn’t even justifiably complain about the situation. Fletch said, “That’s quite an achievement, working full time and finishing your studies, especially in such a demanding area. And I’ll bet you became a doctor at a younger age than usual, too.”

  Albert shrugged, acceding to this speculation.

  Of course he had, Fletch figured, and no doubt at the same time he’d also pursued knowledge throughout the myriad topics crucial to forensics. “Why don’t you insist on being called Dr Sterne? People should show you more respect.”

  “I’m not interested in their respect. And I don’t believe in titles.”

  “What, you only believe in results, and you let them speak for themselves? That would be right.”

  Albert lifted a hand, as if to say, Assume what you like.

  Fletch knew Albert would have vehemently denied it if Fletcher were wrong. He chuckled at his mischievous success. “Did you always plan on working in forensics? It’s a thankless sort of job, isn’t it?”

  “It seemed a better option than becoming a general practitioner,” Albert said, casting a dry glance at Fletcher when he laughed. It was an impossible sort of image, Albert Sterne coping with diverse living patients each day, with all their needs and ailments and complaints. “Feeling happy again, are you?”

  “Must be talking about you that does it.”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  Fletch turned fully, pushed closer to kiss him, and was quickly caught up in the subtle mysteries and the simple intimacies of sex. This man did it to him every time. But Albert was apparently, as ever, unwilling to lose himself in sensation - Fletch could feel him holding back, remaining in control, even as he responded to Fletch’s need by initiating something more intense.

  Offering a smile, Fletch drew away, hands roaming for a last precious moment, then settled back in Albert’s arms to go to sleep. “Good night, love,” he whispered, though he didn’t expect or receive a reply.

  The muffled clatter of the garage door vibrated through the house, and Fletch groaned from under the quilt. Had Albert never heard of the civilized practice of sleeping in on the weekend? Apparently not, for whenever Fletch was in Washington, Albert got out of bed every morning at six, changed into his tracksuit, and rode his bike for half an hour, no matter what the day or weather. Fletch suspected that, given the precise timing of each trip, Albert had mapped out a route years ago and still stuck to it. He probably allowed for an adequate warm up, then twenty minutes of aerobic exercise, and then a warm down as he pedaled home. Always the same. In fact, as he heard the back door open, Fletch bet to himself that it was now twenty-five to seven - he groaned again when he saw the bedside clock confirmed his surmise.

  Albert had come in and was undressing, placing his neatly folded sweater and pants in the laundry basket. He nodded a greeting when he noticed Fletch was awake, and Fletch smiled. Albert looked nice naked: compact and firm and balanced. “Come back to bed,” Fletch suggested.

  “I have work to do.” Albert headed for the bathroom and ran the shower.

  Fletch retreated under the quilt. His own exercise regime was far more random. He and Caroline would play squash every other day, or Fletch would go for a run. There were sociable football and baseball games held between the various federal and state public servants in Denver during the lunch hour. And, on the weekends before he began visiting Albert so regularly, Fletch tried to get away from town, up into the mountains, and hike for miles.

  But the only exercise he got in Washington these days was in Albert’s bed; a situation he would have to remedy.

  “Isn’t this early for you, Ash?”

  Fletch was inclined to agree: the sun was barely over the horizon. Nevertheless, he struggled into a spare pair of Albert’s track pants.

  “You do realize it’s Sunday today,” Albert said rather pointedly.

  “It’s not my fault you have these uncivilized habits.”

  “I had no intention of waking you.”

  Fletch sat down on the bed to tie his sneakers. He frowned at a sudden recollection. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately; if I were out hiking I’d be two miles away by now; if I had work to do I’d be halfway through it.”

  “Don’t delude yourself, Ash, you’re always slow in the mornings.”

  “I don’t know, it feels worse these days.”

  The man said, “I have to go.”

  Yeah, Albert, don’t want to ruin your schedule. Fletch broke the news: “I’m coming with you. You ride, I’ll run.”

  Silence. “You won’t keep up.”

  “Try me,” Fletch retorted, though he backed down in the next breath. “All ri
ght. You’ll just have to slow down a bit.” Albert was looking dubious. “Oh come on,” Fletch said, “this is bonding or something, me sharing the things you do and all that.”

  “Indeed.” Albert glanced at the clock. “If you insist, then let’s go.”

  Fletch’s smile didn’t last long. He soon discovered that Albert took his exercise even more seriously than Fletch had anticipated. “I’ve got a better idea,” he panted out at last, “I’ll ride, you run.”

  By the time they returned home, Albert’s schedule was forty minutes behind.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” Fletch promised, collapsed across the bed. And, when Albert had the shower running hot, Fletch joined him there and tried to do just that. That only delayed Albert’s precious schedule even further.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  OREGON

  NOVEMBER 1984

  Fletch stilled for a moment and cast a careful glance at the ground surrounding him: it looked undisturbed, innocent of secrets. He was distracted by his surroundings, then, loving the dark and abundantly green forests, forever damp and fertile where Colorado tended to be dry. He didn’t even mind the cold, though he kept his hands in his coat pockets as much as possible. One day, when he had some time to himself, Fletch decided, he’d come hiking up here.

  But right now, he wasn’t here for enjoyment. There had been a second body found and Fletch had volunteered to find the third victim that no one, but for Albert, quite believed in. Welcoming the chance, Fletch suspected, to keep him quiet and out of their way, the local police had given him detailed maps of the areas surrounding Portland, marked with the locations of the first two bodies. Fletch had a few ideas on likely locations for the third and was now searching around six to ten feet from the roads and trails in those areas. He had, however, been out here since early morning and the light was beginning to fail him, so it seemed today’s search would be in vain.

  “You find something?” It was Owen Ross, the officer who’d been assigned to help Fletch - and, more to the point, shadow him. No matter how misguided the locals thought Fletch was, they didn’t want to risk any potential evidence that he stumbled across. It was also their case and they were resentful of his intrusion, suspecting that Fletch would find it easy enough to make this federal business. Fletch, on the other hand, knew how hard he’d have to push the issue with Caroline and the local Bureau field office if he really wanted jurisdiction. Nevertheless, he trod carefully in his dealings with the Oregon people, as he desperately needed their cooperation. “Hey, Fletch. You find something?” The man was leaving the road to join him amongst the trees and undergrowth.

  “No, I’m just wool-gathering,” Fletch replied.

  “All right,” Ross said easily, returning to his amble along the road as Fletch began his search again. “You say he always buries them,” Ross called out. “He never leaves them lying around?”

  “There’s something significant about burial for him,” Fletch replied. “Up in the mountains in Colorado, the sensible thing to do with a body is dump it down an old mineshaft. It’s an easy method of disposal, and no one would ever find the thing. But this guy went to all the bother of digging graves two-foot deep that would eventually be discovered. It must mean something - some sort of ritual, or some gesture of respect for the victim. Or it’s a part of how tidy and careful he is, and he simply considers burial is the proper way to dispose of them. Or it’s because burial slows down putrefaction - but that increases the risk of us identifying the victim, and it preserves evidence. Actually, I’ve been working on the assumption that he wants us to find them. But, in short, Owen, I don’t know exactly why.”

  “Sounds like you have it as figured as anyone. You’ll get him.”

  If there was one word that summed up Owen Ross, Fletcher thought, it would be sincere. Fletch continued, “The thing that gives me hope is that, this time, we’re only weeks behind him. The previous cases, we didn’t find the bodies for months.” He sighed. “Even so, I’ve been after this guy for years, and I don’t really feel I’m any closer.”

  “Still reckon you’ll get him.”

  “Thanks,” Fletch said, grimacing to himself. This was the first vote of confidence he’d had for far too long, but it didn’t help. There were things Ross didn’t know, and Fletch in no way deserved his faith.

  Albert’s hotel room was as neatly ordered as Fletch anticipated. They’d only checked in the day before, and Fletch’s room already looked like tornadoes hit it on a regular basis. He grinned to himself at the disparity and closed the door behind him, as Albert returned to the reports spread in neat piles on the table. “I didn’t find anything,” Fletch said.

  “I assumed as much.”

  “So little faith,” Fletch joked uneasily. He continued, “Well, if I don’t find something tomorrow, either the locals will throw me out or Caroline will insist I return.”

  “You should be able to charm both into allowing you a little more leeway.” The tone of voice was totally bland and uninterested, without even the dryness that Fletch interpreted as humor.

  There was a silence, which Fletch stood through. Albert seemed less and less approachable these days, but Fletch couldn’t doubt that he would always be welcome; he knew he was unique in Albert’s affections. Eventually, Fletch said, “You want to know the truth?” And then he evaded the issue by slipping off his jacket, discarding it on a handy chair, and pouring himself a double nip of whisky from the mini-bar. He hadn’t really faced up to this himself.

  When Fletch didn’t continue, Albert prompted, “Yes,” though he didn’t look up from the report he was scanning.

  “I didn’t go to the most likely places. In fact, after I visited the other two sites yesterday and got a feel for the general lay of the land, I reckon I could have walked right to the other gravesite. But I didn’t. I spent the day wandering around all my third and fourth and fifth choices.”

  That caught Albert’s attention. He was staring, furious, but Fletch knew him well enough to read disbelief underneath it. “I trust there’s a good reason,” Albert bit out.

  Fletch was impressed, having expected insults. Perhaps they would come later. “You know who the first suspect always is,” he started.

  “The person who finds the body and reports it.”

  “Always, even if you can clear them within moments, you always check them out. There’s so many cases where the offender, even if they’re not immediate family or a close friend, has been one of the on-lookers, part of the search team, or simply the first to come forward.”

  “Are you suffering from a guilty conscience of some kind? Is there some reason you want to avoid the questions?”

  “Yes, I -”

  Albert was standing. Here it came. “That is the most foolish and self-indulgent thing you’ve ever done - and that’s saying something, Ash.” The voice was low, presumably to avoid sharing this with their neighbors. “Deliberately delaying part of a murder investigation - there are laws against it. I used to admire the professionalism and dedication you exhibited, despite the haphazard and slovenly way you conduct other areas of your life. Now you confess to obstructing the pursuit of justice.”

  Fletcher managed to hold Albert’s angry gaze throughout, for it was only what he deserved. Albert might be better at verbalizing such chastisements, but Fletch felt them with greater strength in his heart. “It hardly matters at this stage,” Fletch tried, though he knew he sounded sheepish.

  “Of course it matters and you know that very well. The offender, who is more likely to have been alerted to the investigation, has another twenty-four hours to destroy evidence, prepare his alibi, leave the vicinity. The body and the trace evidence will decay further or be lost -”

  “All right, all right, it was the wrong thing to do.”

  “Every hour is significant; particularly in this case, when we are closer behind the offender than before. Why do you think the initial stages of these investigations are carried on around the clock? Why do you suppo
se that in ninety percent of cases, an autopsy will be conducted immediately, whatever the hour, rather than wait until morning?”

  “Albert, please. I made a mistake, a serious mistake - but I admitted it. Show me a little mercy.”

  “It makes no sense, you exhibit no consistency. You want people to believe in these instincts of yours, the intuition, the empathy you have with this murderer - yet you fail to prove this capacity when you have the perfect chance.”

  Fletch poured himself another nip of whisky, drank it down in little more than a gulp. “I consider myself suitably reproved. If you’re done?”

  “Yes.”