The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

As Albert sat down again, Fletch wandered closer. “You’re a hard man, Albert,” he commented.

  “But thankfully I’m hardest of all on myself,” the man said flatly, completing one of Fletcher’s oft-spoken observations.

  “No, what I was going to say was …” Fletch leaned in to slide his arms around Albert’s shoulders, to whisper in his ear, “A hard man is good to find.”

  Albert shrugged him off, more annoyed than Fletch had seen him in a long while.

  “You may interpret that in at least two ways.” Fletch sat in the closest chair, felt something akin to physical collapse - it had been a fraught few days. He propped his elbows on his knees, and hung his head. “You know, sometimes I just want to be normal. Not often, not very often at all. Sometimes, however, I’m nothing but doubt and fear, and I wish I was - I wish with a vengeance I was anyone else. Harley, maybe. A good old-fashioned country boy who’s barely different enough to be interesting.” On consideration, Fletch smiled bleakly. “But I wouldn’t have you, then, would I?”

  Albert was silent.

  “Beth is nice, one of the nicest people I know. I had an enormous crush on her when I was a kid and never quite got over it, if you must know. But she isn’t you, not by a long shot.”

  Turning another page of the report, Albert seemed oblivious.

  “It’s too late now,” Fletch said.

  “Yes,” Albert said distantly. “Please don’t consider yourself permanently encumbered with me, but I seem to recall that Beth and Harley are married.”

  Fletch laughed, with some genuine amusement. “I meant it’s too late to go find that body. They’d just love that, wouldn’t they? You and me showing up at midnight having traipsed around the crime site alone.”

  “The watch dog who’s been at your heels all day should be available.”

  “Now, there’s an idea. I have Owen’s home phone number here somewhere.”

  “Call him, then.” Albert tidily bundled the reports up, and slid them into his briefcase. “And don’t forget you owe me six dollars for the whisky.”

  Fletch grinned. “Love you anyway,” he said, fishing in his wallet for Ross’s card. Scraps of paper, receipts, assorted business cards, dollar bills and a few photos ended up scattered across the bed. “Here it is.” He gathered the rest up, leaving some of the money behind, and stuffed it all back into his wallet wherever it would fit.

  Albert was staring at him rather pointedly, but Fletcher barely noticed. A woman answered the phone, and yelled for Ross, who agreed to meet Fletch in ten minutes.

  “I don’t know.” Ross’s troubled voice drifted clearly down the slope to where Fletch waited in the night’s darkness. “He said he was looking at the maps, and inspiration struck.” Radio static obscured the reply. “Yeah, well, I reckon he’s okay. You’d better all get up here, though, soon as possible. No, they’re down there, but I told them not to touch anything. Yeah, I’ll be sure, but you gotta agree these guys know what they’re doing. Okay, Ross out.”

  Fletch tracked Ross’s circuitous approach as the man crashed through the undergrowth off to one side of the site - what they’d quickly decided was the least likely path for the offender to have taken - the beam of his flashlight bouncing crazily. “They’re on their way,” Ross announced when he reached the tiny clearing.

  “I heard,” Fletch said. “And don’t worry, we haven’t disturbed a thing.”

  Albert was methodically but quickly searching the ground surrounding the site with the second flashlight, while Fletch crouched near the mound of dirt and rocks. He was impatient to unearth the body, despite the part of him that dreaded what he would find - his inclination was to forget cold procedure, to get in there now and shovel the dirt aside with his bare hands, lost in some mad grieving frenzy. Instead, he helped Ross tape off the area. Do not cross this line.

  “Nothing?” Fletch asked when Albert joined them outside the tape. Albert shook his head. Fletch observed, “He’s far too clever. As smart and as tidy as you.”

  “I hope I’m not supposed to be flattered by the comparison.”

  Ross was watching them with a sharp eye.

  Albert was continuing, “It’s necessary for us to remain thorough. One day this man will make a mistake.”

  “Just like me - is that your point?” Fletch grinned a little, humorless. “But when does his control run out? When do the edges start fraying?”

  “You said yourself he might keep doing this for years.”

  Fletcher widened his eyes, mostly in jest, and whispered, “I’ll go mad.”

  Turning to consider him, Albert said seriously, “Judging by the last two months, you might be right.”

  After a moment, Fletch shook himself, cast an apology at their companion. “Never mind us, Owen. I’ve been on this guy’s trail for too long. It’s getting to me. As for Albert, he has no excuse - he’s always like this.”

  Albert’s stare turned up a couple of notches to furious, but Fletch was saved from an insult by the arrival of the local police and deputies.

  “Strange,” Fletcher said, frowning down at the body. It was dawn, though the lights they had set up were still providing necessary illumination, and it was bitterly cold. “Right location, wrong MO.”

  There was plastic wrapped loosely around the body - not in a neat parcel like in Colorado, and unlike the other two Oregon victims who’d had no shroud - and the boy was fully clothed, though his sneakers were untied. He had been buried face up.

  Fletch said, “That T-shirt is distinctive. Does anyone remember a missing person report mentioning a logo like that? It must be a rock band or something.”

  A few of the surrounding officers indicated that they didn’t recall. One said gruffly, “I’ll check on it.” Don’t tell us how to do our job, G-man.

  “What do you make of it, Albert?”

  The forensics man, who’d helped unearth the body, walked over to stand next to Fletch. “Do you recall the corpse in Colorado who died as a result of a head injury?”

  “Before the offender had a chance to torture and rape him. Sure. But he disposed of the body in the same way as the other two, in that instance; we found all three in exactly the same conditions and circumstances.” Fletch frowned, considering. “And this was the right location. Maybe he’s losing it, he’s letting the consistency go. Maybe this one didn’t count, the kid was extraneous like Stacey Dixon - he just dumped her in a river, remember. Or he wanted it to look unrelated for some reason -” Fletcher folded his arms, and hunched towards Albert for emphasis rather than grab the man in public - “Perhaps this one is too close to home, and he wants us to concentrate on the other two because they fit his MO.”

  Albert agreed. “Maybe,” he said, doing Fletch the favor of not backing off from the sudden intensity.

  “Maybe -” Fletch groaned. “Albert, what if this one didn’t satisfy him because he didn’t get to play his damned games and there’s still another victim to find.”

  “Possible, though that wasn’t the case in Colorado.”

  “I know, but he’s going to escalate, he’s going to need it more and more before he’s done. Maybe he could still control it back then, despite disappointments.” Fletcher turned to find the officer in charge. “Would you let Dr Sterne at least observe the autopsy? Or use him to conduct or assist, if you like; he’s the best in the Bureau.”

  “He can observe,” the man agreed.

  “All right.” Fletcher ran both hands back through his hair, trying to keep track of his thoughts: the new knowledge and the old cases, the assumptions and connections, the conclusions and theories; all these had to be kept separate and clearly identified. Sometimes his mind seemed like a box of cards, all cross-referenced and tabbed, an image he thought far more appropriate for Albert to deal with. “I need to keep Owen,” he continued. “I have a horrible feeling there’s another body out here.”

  It was only later that Fletcher remembered he’d reached a hand to grip Albert’s shoulder, seeking reassur
ance, before heading off up the trail with a tired Ross in tow. But Albert hadn’t complained or made a fuss, which would only have drawn attention. And such a gesture surely wasn’t open to misinterpretation.

  But such musings were banished within the hour by the discovery of another gravesite close to where Fletch had predicted. Fletcher knelt at the edge of the road, gazing down at the disturbed earth, while Ross ran back to the car to call it in. Alone, the Special Agent found he was blinking back tears.

  “Ash. Wake up.”

  Albert. Fletch sought consciousness, confused by the awkward position he was cramped into, by the unnatural cold, by the artificial light. Then he remembered he was in the basement labs of the Oregon medical examiner’s building, and Albert had been assisting in the autopsy of the fourth body. “All done?” Fletch asked, slowly prying himself out of the plastic bucket seat he’d been sitting in.

  “Yes. You could have returned to the hotel, Ash.”

  “Didn’t want to be alone.”

  Albert raised an eyebrow at him, conveying surprise and disdain and warning. Don’t be obvious.

  Fletcher said, “I also wanted to hear the results.” He tried to stretch but didn’t get very far.

  “Same MO as the first two bodies. Time of death for all four was within a period of four weeks, perhaps during September. Cause of death in this instance was anoxic anoxia, due to ligature strangulation with something soft that left no external markings. Numerous bruises and minor injuries, sexual penetration. I believe the boy was also gagged.”

  “Was the offender a non-secretor?”

  “The tests won’t be ready until morning.”

  “What about the third body?”

  “Cause of death was anoxic anoxia, too, but due to suffocation. Both arms were severely fractured - the radius, to be precise,” Albert indicated the top of his forearm with a chopping motion. “There are no other injuries, and no evidence of sexual activity. I understand, however, there was a partial fingerprint on the boy’s shoe.”

  “What? One that didn’t match the boy’s prints?”

  “I would hardly have mentioned it if it did.”

  “That’s great!”

  “Don’t get carried away, Ash: it could easily belong to a parent, friend or sibling and, if not, is little use at present unless the offender’s prints are on file.”

  “Come on, Albert, that’s the first print we’ve got on this guy. Possible print,” he amended at Albert’s impatient expression.

  “I wasn’t in attendance for the full procedure, so we’ll have to wait on the reports for more detail.”

  “Let’s get them now.”

  “Ash, you’re still dreaming. The reports won’t be transcribed until tomorrow. Apparently the typists here are all two-fingered.”

  “Damn it, I -”

  “It is after one in the morning, neither of us have slept since the night before last. Put the obsession aside. We’ve done all we can for now.”

  Mutinous, Fletch glared, but Albert refused to back down.

  “It would have been nice to see this dedication yesterday, before you lost us twelve hours.”

  “All right,” Fletch said ungraciously. “Let’s go.” But he could be stubborn, too. Once they were back at the hotel, Fletch followed Albert into his room, and sat on the bed before Albert could draw breath to protest. “Don’t want to be alone,” he repeated.

  “Exactly what are you suggesting? It’s hardly wise to -”

  “Oh just come here and hold me, will you?”

  After a moment, Albert did so, sitting beside Fletch and taking him into a firm embrace. No matter how mad he was with Fletch, the younger man noted, Albert rarely stinted on providing what Fletcher needed if it was at all possible.

  “Felt like crying out there, finding I was right and he’s killed another four boys. Four more lives, Albert, four young lives. Felt like bawling my eyes out, but I didn’t.”

  “If you must, my shoulder seems convenient at present.”

  “Don’t think I can. Don’t know that I want to, actually.”

  “It might prove a better option than the nightmares.”

  “True. But, you know, I haven’t cried since I was twelve. It was 1964. I remember -” And he was lost for a moment, swamped all over again.

  One of Albert’s hands settled for a moment on Fletcher’s head. “Your mother dying?”

  “She’d died two years before, though I guess that was part of it. Is that the last time you cried? When your parents were killed?”

  “It’s late, Ash. Go get some sleep.”

  The embrace, however, was not withdrawn, so Fletch assumed that was a yes. He wound his arms tighter around Albert’s neat waist, lodged his head comfortably in the crook of Albert’s neck, and told the story. “I remember it was 1964, because we were watching the TV coverage of the Democratic convention and Bobby Kennedy was there. He stood up at the podium, and they applauded him for fifteen, twenty minutes. Do you remember that? When they finally let him speak, he said that when he thought of President Kennedy, he thought of what Shakespeare wrote in Romeo and Juliet - of all the plays to choose for your brother! - and he quoted from it. When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun. And I was sitting there in Harley’s arms, sort of like this, bawling my eyes out, partly for JFK and partly because I idolized Harley like that, too.”

  It had been a rough couple of years for young Fletcher David Ash, so all that wailing on Harley’s shoulder must have been some kind of necessary catharsis. It was true that he’d never cried since, though tears had often threatened. It wasn’t that he was ashamed to cry, or thought it improper or unbecoming for a man - Fletch simply suspected that if he wept every time life did something terrible to him, there would be no other possible reaction. It would be like giving in to an indulgence that he could not afford, being governed by an emotion that would get him nowhere.

  He had a brief but vivid image of himself old and grey at Albert’s funeral: he was wearing one of Albert’s suits because none of his own were good enough; and he wanted to bawl his eyes out like a child, but couldn’t. No one knew they’d been lovers, no one could guess at Fletcher’s grief. Except maybe Fletch would at last meet the mysterious Elliott Meyer, and maybe he could tell the man that Albert had had a share of contentment in his life, though Albert kept his love such a complete secret …

  Fletcher brought his thoughts back to the present, noticing that Albert had remained silent. It appeared that, where Albert had previously provided a sharp retort or an insult, now he would sometimes say nothing. Because he didn’t want to hurt Fletcher? Because he didn’t want to hurt himself? Because he wanted their relationship to be different from what it had started as? It certainly wasn’t because Fletch never disappointed him, the younger man knew that much.

  Fletcher asked, “Can I impose on you and sleep here tonight?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t be childish, you know very well why. All it would take would be Ross trying to call you and our discretion so far would have been in vain.”

  “You being there and holding me helps the nightmares, Albert.” Fletcher lifted his head to meet Albert’s gaze.

  “Resorting to emotional blackmail?” the man noted coldly. Then, warming with sarcasm, “I’m so glad to be of use to you as a security blanket. Nevertheless, we can’t spend every night together.”

  “What if you come stay in my room? They’re more likely to call me than you.”

  “No.”

  Fletcher sighed. This was something he wanted badly, but he’d anticipated defeat before he even tried. “How did I end up with a lover so stubborn?”

  “By being so stubborn yourself, as I recall.”

  “I guess you get what you ask for,” Fletcher observed with a smile, “or what you deserve.”

  �
��How trite. Perhaps you should look for a job composing the messages in greeting cards, or the sayings on cheap desk calendars.”

  Fletcher chuckled a little - that was the Albert he knew and loved. “I’ll be sure to consult you when I need a change in career.”

  Albert lifted his hands, wove his fingers through Fletcher’s hair, pressed his cheek and lips against Fletcher’s forehead. It wasn’t a kiss, and it was too brief, but it was very nice. Then, in a tone that did not betray any affection, Albert said, “Go to bed. You need sleep.”

  Accepting the inevitable, Fletcher hugged the man, then went to his room alone.

  The FBI men had been allocated a desk in a small and dingy disused room that opened directly onto the police station’s briefing room - which was fine in one way, because they got to hear everything that went on in every case in the Portland area, but inconvenient in many others, beginning with the distraction and the lack of privacy.